Resolution
by the Merry Minstrel
Summary: After the destruction of Haven, Shenlira Lavellan feels haunted by vivid nightmares. In the course of managing her responsibilities, she grows closer to her military Commander, Cullen Rutherford. But the hardships of war and great personal secrets lay many stones into the path of their relationship. And behind it all, a sinister plot unravels... [Cullen/F!Inquisitor Lavellan]
1. I Dawning Dance

_"A year ago, the only living thing that kept me company was my wolf, who I raised from a scraggly bag of bones to be my dearest friend. That my life would come to this… This journey through fire, bedlam and nightmare. That my destiny would intertwine with yours, to carry me through it all. It seems like a dream, a phantasm, a mirage I have yet to believe. And yet I live it each day, so for heaven's sake, don't let me wake."_

 _Welcome to **Resolution**!_

 _No-Frills-Summary: Lore-Rich, mostly Canon-Compliant Slow-Burn Romance story with much feels, suspense and tension and a few select sexy times. About one third relationship development "build-up", the rest is an elaborate Mystery/Adventure-Plot._

 _This story follows the romantic relationship between Cullen and Inquisitor Shenlira Lavellan as they form a growing bond and face the dangers fate puts into their path. The story is supposed to be mostly canon and lore-conform. I say mostly, because some small things that are of my own invention are in there, for example elven words, legends or the custom of Alaslin, which doesn't exist in the original game. I also take liberties with magic in the world of Thedas, but since the game's lore itself isn't terribly explicit about several things, it should tie in nicely. Even though I read up on lore elements while writing, some things might not be completely accurate. Character experience differs too, so some characters might seem a little different to how you saw them in the game. Still, I try to stay true to the "real thing" and weave the story in a way that falls in line with the original game. Of course, I do not simply retell the events of the game, but rather write an original plot that happens in parallel to it._

 _Please be aware that Resolution contains many possible spoilers to both the main game and Trespasser. _

_As with all of my stories, this is a romance. Fluffy, full of great emotions and longing looks and moments of suspense. I describe the character's feelings closely and take my time with it, often to the dramatic. Hehe, that's just the way I like it! So if that's your thing too, then this might be for you._

 _I write for fun and as it says on my profile, English is not my native language. Any mistakes or strange choice of words or grammar... I apologize for that._

 _Characters who feature strongly are: [Cullen, female elf archer Inquisitor], Varric, Solas, Leliana, Cassandra. Several appearances are made by Dorian, the Bull and Josephine, although all companions are mentioned throughout the story._

 _Resolution is rated M for mature content in several chapters and many suggestive things before. Also a few (not too graphic, but still) descriptions of violence. Mind the M!_

 _Another thing : Resolution is quite a long story with an elaborate plot. It takes some time to get going and the first few chapters might seem slow paced, but please keep reading, for (in my opinion) the story grows with each chapter. I am going to upload chapters in a steady rhythm, so don't worry that you will be left hanging!_

 _ **Update:** I finished editing! 19/19 Chapters done, and yes I did (metaphorical) cartwheels! I am stunned how long this story has become. Updates will be coming about once a week. Story will hopefully soon be available at AO3, and I did some polishing here and there... Damn this is a neverending thing. PUT IT DOWN MINSTREL. Maybe one of these days I will. I'm not ready yet._

 _Enjoy and if you liked it, please review/favorite, or post me your favorite scenes, anything! Those are the things that keep me going. :)_

* * *

 **I. Dawning Dance**

 _A dance is nothing more, and nothing less, than unity. Two parts that push and pull, sense the other's edges, feel their way towards equilibrium, then settle into the same rhythm. It always thrives to escape control, to resume human chaos, to lose itself in entropy. What it needs is harmony to grant it balance, like a scale, like a tightrope-walker, a constant effort. And every bond, every relationship, begins with such a dance.  
The Merry Minstrel_

* * *

 _The dream started as it always did. On a vast battlefield that spread out all around, as far as the eye could see. Smouldering ruins were sending up smoke into a darkened sky like funeral pyres, and the sky spit an endless rain of ashes back down on them. Bodies were everywhere, littering the ground, bloodied and beyond help, broken dolls never to be whole again. She walked through the carnage left behind by her folly, by every wrong decision made. It felt like a walk of endless shame and guilt, looking into the faces of the dead, knowing the weight of their lives was on her conscience. Each step seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. But she walked on. Every night the dream came, and every night she searched for survivors. There had to be something left. Someone, anyone, alive. After a long time – of maybe no time at all – a silhouette rose before her from the fog of war. The great statue of a Halla, an antlered deer revered by the elves, loomed in the middle of the battlefield. It was made from stone so black, her gaze seemed to bounce off of it. The sight of a halla should have felt comforting, hadn't there been something utterly wrong about it. At the base of the statue, people were chained against its legs. She broke into a run, realizing they were her closest companions, her inner circle, agony on their faces as the chains choked them to a slow, painful demise. Closer, closer, I can still save them! I can-_

 _But just before she reached the statue, hands stretched out, the Halla turned its head. A burning, blood-curdling gaze of malice stunned her. Unearthly vines broke from the ground and wrapped around her legs. Tripped and immobilized, she fell to her knees and was forced to look into the abysmal eyes of the statue. A voice roared inside her head, so terrifying and sinister that she cried out, but it could not drown the words._

 _"I see you. I see your fears." Throat sealed shut, windpipe squeezed by the vines, bound and shackled, she had to watch as the chains around the ones she held dear pulled tighter and tighter. Breaking. Killing. "By the end, you will eat fear and drink grief. There will be nothing left of you but despair." Still the torment continued without mercy, until the agonized cries turned into death screams. Their voices mingled with her own into a rising cacophony. Helpless, unable to do anything to prevent it. Despair, like a great tidal wave crashing down on her. Then it was silent._

Shenlira realized that she had screamed herself awake from the nightmare. She shivered uncontrollably, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as she sat bolt upright in the wide four-poster bed. The fire in her quarters had burned down sometime in the night, leaving behind a chill that made her bones ache and old scars pull tight. The dim grey light before dawn softened all edges of the room, blurring the silhouettes of furniture so they seemed not quite real. She wrapped her arms around her body and curled up, a desperate, childish gesture one resorted to when seeking comfort. _Be as small as possible, unnoticed, so evil spirits would pass by._ It took a few minutes to calm herself. The nightmare was the same every single night since Haven, but the people chained to the statue became more, more defined, their faces clearer the more attached she was becoming to them. Cullen had been there, and Leliana and Josephine, Dorian and Cassandra… And others she was growing fond of since she'd become Inquisitor.

Inquisitor, she thought, scoffing inwardly. A Dalish Inquisitor, an elf Herald of Andraste. There was a peculiar irony in that, which would have made her smile on a happier day. Shenlira rose from the bed and poured water into a small washing basin. She wiped the cold sweat of fear from her face and neck, sighing. From the mirror, a tired woman with pale, translucent skin gazed back at her critically. An unruly mane of dark red hair, ruffled even further from sleep, framed her heart-shaped face and fell defiantly over expressive grey eyes settled above high cheek-bones. Absent-mindedly, she brushed the strands from her smooth brow. _Bare-face._ A mocking name the other aspirants had dubbed her, for lacking the Vallaslin. The keeper had put an end to their juvenile cruelty at some point. Although those times were now long past, her reflection still sometimes managed to startle Shenlira.

Turning away from the mirror and observing the grey in grey haze outside her great balcony doors, she surmised morosely that it might be too early to get up. But going back to sleep didn't seem like an option either. That never worked. She'd tried enough times to know. The nightmares were too disturbing, went to deep and had buried roots there in such a way that she dreaded laying down her head each night. Ruefully she remembered a distant past when sleep had been a sanctuary, an escape from the harsh, sharp contours of reality, blissful oblivion. But not anymore. Haven had shown her that the task as Inquisition leader was a colossal thing, a thing that tied thousands of lives together and put them into her hands. The responsibility felt like carrying an anvil around on one's back, from sunrise to sundown, without reprieve. Distractedly, she looked down at her hands. Unmarred, scarless hands with slender fingers. She had learned to fight with daggers and swords, although differently than most humans did. But her weapon had always been the bow.

Years before they had sent her to the Conclave to spy on the outcome, Shenlira had been named Alaslin of the Lavellan clan. The word meant Huntsmaster, or First Hunter in the elven tongue, but hunting only made up one part of the occupation. These nimble fighters went forward with a small party, or often on their own, to scout the lands where the caravans would move. They were supposed to gather information about human activity, hunting possibilities, the lay of the land, everything. Alaslin were chosen for their expertise in scouting and survival, skills they honed and widened during many journeys into different lands. She'd been supposed to watch the Conclave from afar and bring back as much information as she could to clan Lavellan.

But everything had turned out differently. The Anchor, the permanent mark on her left palm, had changed the course of her destiny forever. There were still days when she would wake and be overcome by a claustrophobic, disoriented sort of panic. Where had the forest gone? The pure wilderness, the sheltering company of creatures that knew no contempt, treachery or war. Shenlira was not used to the scrutiny of the whole world and responsibility over countless people. She'd always gotten her orders from the clan leaders and had carried most of them out alone. Now she was giving the orders, and her mind shied away from the number of lives depending on those orders. _You have so much to lose now. So staggeringly much_.

A shudder went through her as she got dressed in finely tailored outdoor clothes. The tinted grey leather jerkin was high quality and lined with fur at the neck and wrists. Even the boots had fur lining. The luxury of it still baffled her. She could just requisition anything she wanted and it would be delivered after a few days. Well, of course she didn't. It would be wasteful and unnecessary. Her clan hadn't lacked in anything, but she'd usually made her own clothes, with leather from her own kills. The only thing she had not crafted herself was the bow, propped on its stand next to the writing desk.

Few weapons were granted names, but this was old enough to receive one. Made with such exquisite craftsmanship that it had endured a hundred years, Heartwood's limbs were carved from white yew and curved to resemble a Halla's horns. Great Dalish artists had perpetuated their mastery by engraving the wood with symbols of the hunt: the mountain lion, Sajnalin, and the great stag, Faleran, on either side. Fine white velour leather was bound around the grip in slim strips. Heartwood had been given to Shenlira when she'd become Alaslin of clan Lavellan. It wasn't exactly hers – it belonged to the clan and would pass to the next Alaslin once she retired from the position or… She didn't finish that thought.

The elves believed that the white yew's wood could be imbued with the memories of those holding and using it, and as such it would remember the experiences of all Alaslin who'd let loose their arrows from it. A small smile curved her lips as she ran her fingers along the polished, seamless limb. Even if those stories were true, she still had to study and practice for hours every day since the age of five to reach the expertise she now had. For a moment, she flirted with the notion of grabbing the bow and just sneak out. Hunt for the whole day. Or at least a few hours. But there was a war council meeting scheduled early in the morning, and those could not be delayed.

Shenlira sighed and left her quarters without Heartwood. The throne room stood empty, except for the few people who cleaned out the last day's signs of use and scrubbed every surface each morning. Silence greeted her in the courtyard, bereft of the sounds of clanging swords or witty banter between soldiers. She made her way to the stables, where the soft snorting and huffing of animals told her that she wasn't the only one awake in the keep. At least for an hour or two she would train the wild hart that had been delivered to Skyhold a few weeks before. She'd encountered the beautiful animal in the Hinterlands after Master Dennet had told her where to find them. These creatures could not be broken in like horses or other mounts, they stayed wild at heart for all of their lives. Through much cajoling and meticulous discipline, Shenlira had tamed it and won its trust. She loved her horse, a nimble blue roan named Ash, but the challenge to train a hart was an exciting new experience. On her way through the stables, several horses came to their stall doors and greeted her with enthusiasm. A great black stallion leaned his head over to bump her shoulder, snorting playfully. Shenlira stopped for a moment to stroke over the single white patch of fur on the beast's brow. This was Cullen's mount. She knew that because she'd seen her Commander ride out with the troops more than once, and he somehow always managed to look taller than everyone else. Probably because his horse was a tenacious battle mount whose shoulders were as high as man was tall. Or maybe just because he struck such an imposing figure all on his own. Her thoughts seemed to scatter as they went into a confusing direction and Shenlira was momentarily at a loss to gather them again. Commander Cullen… A templar no more, and yet everything about him resonated the virtues those strange human warriors prided themselves with. Honour, fortitude, protection _. Watch yourself about those naïve fancies_ , some rational part of her brain warned. And yet… Wouldn't the sight of his leadership be a great comfort to the humans who have lost their faith in their champions of justice? How should she help herself, anyway? She had yet to glimpse a crack in his composure, a fault in that single-minded purpose, if there were any to find. Except maybe the way he stubbornly occupied her thoughts right now.

Sighing, she went to Nimhue's stall. The hart trumpeted to her softly while Shenlira brushed her down and put on the saddle. She answered by humming the melody of an elven children's song. The soldiers at the back gate knew her habit of training mounts in the wide, circular pen behind the keep well by now. None of them questioned her as she led Nimhue by the reins, still humming. As soon as she'd closed the fence, Shenlira leapt into the saddle. A lightness came over her the second Nimhue trotted forward, breaking into a joyful stride. The anxiety after waking from the nightmare slid off her shoulders, the shedding of a heavy coat. She gave herself to the hart's keenness to run together. The quiet hum from before now swelled to a song full of verve as she took it up again, and Nimhue moved in unison with the rhythm of her voice. They rode in wide circles, sometimes slowing to turn and canter around themselves. After a while, Shenlira closed her eyes and let the hart run its course, emptying her mind of all worries. The trees whispered to each other, swaying in the wind. The sounds of the waking keep carried over like a muffled story. There was such a simple comfort in the beginning of a new day, in this small measure of freedom. Nimhue never tired of their dance. Shenlira had no idea how much time had passed when the shushed whispering of voices brought her out of her reverie. The song came to an abrupt end and she looked around the pen to find the keep's children watching her with big, avid eyes. There were five or six, all somewhere between seven and twelve winters old. Most of them sons or daughters of keep residents, although one boy in their midst was dressed in noble's clothes. A little girl had half climbed the fence to get a better look at the spectacle. Shenlira spotted a soldier not far behind, flashing her an apologetic grin.

"Good morning _, iliethen_.", she called out to them, stopping Nimhue at a safe distance. She needn't have been concerned, though. The hart stayed perfectly calm beneath her. It even trumpeted in welcome, making the children squeak.

"How do you make it dance?", the noble boy asked, but then blushed as Shenlira smiled at him. As soon as he'd broken the silence, all the others seemed to lose their shyness and began questioning her about all sorts of things. Where did the stag come from? Was she really the Inquisitor? Could they ride the hart? What was its name?

"One after the other, please. How do I make it dance? Well, just like you make people dance. I sing.", she explained, her eyes roaming over their rapt faces. "Do you know the song _Apples of Ferelden_?" The children nodded vigorously. "Good. If we sing to Nimhue, she will dance for us. Come here, little one." The girl who'd climbed the fence was immediately the centre of much squealing and cries of envy as Shenlira lifted her straight up and into the saddle in front of her. Nimhue did not even shift, enduring it smoothly. With a little force from her legs, Shenlira coaxed the hart into a slow step while she struck up the first lines of Apples of Ferelden. It didn't take long before the children all joined in – and she could not suppress a smile at their enthusiasm.

* * *

Cullen had been looking for the Inquisitor for some time without much luck. The morning meeting was due soon and it was his turn to brief her about the issues that would be addressed. He didn't know why he felt awkward searching for her around the keep, or why he grew restless when none of the soldiers seemed to have seen her. In general, he could say that he felt awkward and restless around her, period. When they had first met, he'd almost exclaimed his doubt on how the Herald of Andraste could be a Dalish elf, but that remark had gotten stuck in his throat when her eyes had met his. Light grey framed by a dark ring of blue, like some strange crystal with an inner glow. Finding his voice had been difficult then, for it felt as if the rug had been effectively pulled out from under his feet. Most of the time, Cullen made an effort to keep up an air of military precision and professionality. But sometimes he would wonder about the strange creature who had become the leader of the Inquisition. The Dalish kept to themselves mostly, so little was known about their customs and culture, which shrouded them in mystery for most people. But the Inquisitor managed to be an enigma on her own, and he suspected that had nothing to do with her being and elf. Could anything be said about her with a degree of certainty? Cullen wasn't sure that he knew her at all, even after weeks of counselling and working together. She seemed a very private kind of person, despite the fact that her every breath was under constant scrutiny. At the war table, she stayed calm and focused on the task, considering the opinions of her advisors carefully. But whenever he saw her around the keep, she looked as though deeply in thought, her gaze often seeking something distant, unfathomable. He didn't even know if she liked or despised him. It could have been either, because the Inquisitor made an effort to be polite to everyone, at the same time taking care to keep her true opinion well concealed. The thought that she might dislike him for some reason nagged Cullen with irrational intensity. He stepped into the stables and – as absent-minded as he was – almost ran over Master Dennet, who was carrying a sack of grain for the horses. The man promptly dropped the sack and stood straight.

"Commander! I did not expect you to visit me this early – did we have an inspection scheduled?", the stablemaster asked, picking the grain back up. Cullen looked around the stables. His horse had come to the front of its stall to greet him, but he noticed that the great wild hart's stall stood empty. Had the Inquisitor ridden out without a word?

"No, no, Master, it's nothing like that. I am looking for the Inquisitor. Have you seen her?", he asked while rubbing his stallion's nose for good measure. Master Dennet bit back a smile. He'd seen the Inquisitor doing exactly that, although he'd been half-asleep on his cot at that time.

"She has taken the hart out for a ride at the pen, I think.", the man answered and turned back to feeding the horses, leaving Cullen wondering what there was to smirk about. When he left the keep by the small back gate that led to a wide, open space sheltered by the high mountainsides, the watch soldiers looked uneasy. They knew they would get chewed out for not reporting that the Inquisitor had left the walls of Skyhold, even if just for a ride at the pen. Cullen thought it best to let them fret and contemplate that for a while, but threw a stern look their way even so. He was momentarily baffled when the sound of singing voices reached him. A soldier stood under a tree near the pen, humming to himself. Cullen saw then what was going on. The Inquisitor sat astride the great wild hart, a small girl held securely in front of her in the saddle, a clutter of children outside the fence. They were all singing in merry discord – he recognized the melody, an old children's song from Ferelden. There was something peculiar about the way the Inquisitor seemed to guide her mount, in complete unison to the rhythm of her voice. The hart stepped and cantered elegantly, like a dancer. But what truly captured Cullen was the wide smile on the woman's face as she sang. The morning sun turned her dark red hair into shining copper, her features alight with joy and a levity he had never seen in her before. His usually steady heart picked up a pace and a strange longing came over him, twisting and swooping something around inside his stomach. To ride with complete freedom and feel the wind on his face, hearing her laugh at his side. Her voice was light and rhythmic, charmingly captivating, almost magical. Against his will, the oddest words leapt into his thoughts, attempting to describe this woman who could revel in such simple enjoyment. _Fleeting. Vivid. Fey. Mercurial._ Forgotten were the many duties that weighed on him, and he would have been content standing there, watching the dance for hours without tiring of it…

"Commander, I – I didn't hear you coming, sir.", the humming watch soldier stammered, breaking Cullen from his dangerous train of thought. The Commander sighed. People clamped up as soon as they noticed his presence, as if his gaze turned them to stone.

"Be at ease. It's fine.", he told the man, who shuddered involuntarily. Likely with relief that he hadn't been reprimanded. It was important that the soldiers respected and showed him discipline as a Commander, but sometimes Cullen felt like they would never relax around him. Why was that, he wondered? The Inquisitor had just settled the girl back on solid ground as he strode up to the pen.

"I would be honoured if I could ride with you the next time, your ladyship.", a boy in noble's clothes remarked shyly to her, his cheeks turning bright red in the process. The Inquisitor smiled at him.

"Your ladyship, am I now? I'd love that, Sir Markan. You'll teach me a song from Orleis?", she answered playfully. The wild hart had stood beside her in perfect peace, but as Cullen neared the fence the animal noticed his presence and trumpeted nervously. All eyes turned to him. The children immediately fell silent and looked at his towering figure with anxious expressions. The Inquisitor straightened as if he'd shaken her awake from a dream. A slight blush crept onto her face, chased by something that looked like embarrassment.

"Inquisitor.", he greeted her, bowing respectfully.

"Commander Cullen. I was just –", she began, but then had to soothe the nervous hart, who'd started to pace on the spot restlessly, pulling at the reins. She cleared her throat once before speaking to the children. "Run along, _iliethen_. But visit me again soon." The little ones threw her pitying looks and eyed Cullen nervously once before they ran past him, glad to be out of his presence. He watched them chase each other back to the keep gates and signalled the soldier to go with them.

"You intimidate them.", the Inquisitor's voice was low, but it brought his attention to her immediately. She hadn't meant it like that – the remark had just slipped out and now Cullen was looking at her with knitted brows. She tried desperately to salvage the situation. "I meant – soldiers in general intimidate children. Or rather… Because you command all the soldiers, you're the most… towering, probably." _What on earth are you doing_ , Shenlira groaned inwardly. He'd thrown her completely off balance, walking up to her like that in the morning sun, like some great warrior statue come alive, hair golden as the mountain lion's pelt, light glinting off his armour. The fur and feather cloak he always wore made him look even taller. She liked that cloak and chose to focus on it now instead of his deep brown eyes surveying her.

"But then again, you command me. By your logic, you would have to be the most towering and intimidating figure of all.", Cullen pondered. When Shenlira dared to look at his face, she was surprised that he almost smiled. It left her strangely flustered.

"I don't command you.", she corrected him quietly, making him actually smile. It was a small one, but she'd seen so few from him that she was momentarily dazzled and had to wonder how many swooning girls she'd find in the keep if Cullen walked around smiling all day.

"No, you do not.", he conceded, his rich voice reassuring but courteous at the same time. He looked up at the wild hart. It had calmed down somewhat, but now eyed him accusingly, as though he'd spoiled its fun by interrupting the song and dance merriment. "You seem to have hand with children.", he pointed out, although even to his own ears he came across as too stiff. What was the matter with him? _You're nervous, that's what. Stop acting like an imbecile. Say something that will make her smile_ , came the answer from somewhere in the back of his head. Fleetingly, he noted that he had never spoken to her alone before. There had always been people around, or at least somewhere close by.

"Children and animals, I've somehow always known how to earn their trust.", the Inquisitor's tone carried a hint of wistfulness. "People… Not so much.", she ended the thought, regretting almost immediately the juvenile ring to her remark. But Cullen's features softened a strange warmth bloomed in his gaze that made her heart do funny things.

"How do you do it? I watched you… just now. It was as if you didn't even need the reins, the mount… danced with you.", Cullen wondered. The hart flicked its ears towards him as though knowing it was the topic of the conversation. The Inquisitor looked baffled by his question. She shifted her weight nervously and he suspected that she was embarrassed about being caught playing with children while the world was ending somewhere else.

"I thought I'd missed the morning meeting and you came to fetch me…", she began, but her words trailed away. Cullen searched for a way to explain that he wasn't about to scold her for having a little fun, but he had a very hard time with it. He didn't know her well enough to comfort her, and besides, she probably thought he had a stick up his behind and slept in full plate every night.

"There is still time until the meeting. Show me again. Please?", he made his voice deliberately mild, almost gentle at the end. That succeeded in thawing her. A small smile came to her lips, which distracted him for a long moment.

"I can't refuse that, can I, Nimhue?", she asked the hart, who nosed her shoulder as an answer and pushed her towards the stirrups. "But there is one condition.", she said after she'd leapt into the saddle gracefully. "Do you know the March to Winter Palace?" Cullen looked suddenly confused by her question.

"It's a soldier's song. You want me to sing for you?", he asked anxiously. The Inquisitor seemed amused by it.

"No. I'd like you to sing it with me.", she corrected. Before he could answer, she struck up the song, her voice much higher and clearer than those of the soldiers that usually sang it. But she gave the song a merry, whimsical tune that drew him to join in. It was the strangest and most light-hearted thing he'd done since a long time, yet singing with her melted the tension in his shoulders and relaxed him while he watched her closely, fascinated. She guided the hart with subtle tension in her legs, almost never pulling the reins. Truly, he witnessed a dance to the rhythm of the song, a unity achieved by moving together as one. Cullen's mind was invaded by the thought what it would feel like to run his hands along those legs, bare skin beneath his fingers, strands of fire-kissed hair brushing against his face. His voice caught and faltered like a drunk man tripping over himself, but he managed to make it look like he'd just forgotten a verse. Maker help him if she knew what had been inside his head. When the song ended and the Inquisitor dismounted, he'd regained his composure, more or less. No easy feat when she smiled at him with her heart-shaped face flushed from the exertion.

"That was… fun.", he grasped at some straw of conversation to distract himself. She tilted her head curiously and led the mount from the pen by the reins. "Although we should probably go back to the keep, the meeting will start soon." A look of disappointment flashed across her features, but it fled quickly as her expression grew serious.

"I'll just stable her, it won't take long.", her voice was a little rueful.

"As you wish, Inquisitor.", Cullen answered while they walked up to the keep gates together. At the entrance to the stables, the Inquisitor halted and regarded him with a look he could not quite place. It was some strange mixture of reproach and amusement. Her grey eyes searched his face for something, and he felt anxious under her scrutiny.

"I wish you wouldn't call me that. At least not…" She'd wanted to say 'when we are alone', but that somehow seemed way too incriminating. Not to mention embarrassing. "… not outside of formal occasions.", she reasserted. Cullen let out a breath. Unconsciously, he'd leaned forward a bit, now realizing that he might be crowding her, but neither she nor the hart seemed to mind. Still, he pulled back a little.

"You mean 'Inquisitor'? I… What would you wish me to call you, then?", he asked. She averted her gaze for a moment before meeting his again. It was hard when he was standing this close. His presence felt almost disturbingly… tangible, as though things around him solidified by his mere vicinity. The sensation left her both unsettled and curiously comforted. The top of her head came up to his shoulders at the most, and behind the severe façade, his expressive eyes seemed to dance with some emotion she found hard to read. Was it delight? Whimsy? The silence lengthened awkwardly.

"Maybe by my given name.", Shenlira finally managed – and could have slapped herself for acting like some dolt. But as she watched, Cullen paled and his face went slack for a moment. That expression could only mean one thing.

"You don't know my first name, do you?", she inquired, but to Cullen's infinite relief, she sounded distinctly playful. He had to clear his throat once before he could reply.

"Is it not Alaslin?" He wished the ground would open and swallow him up as he was making an utter fool of himself. The Inquisitor's eyes widened a little and he saw the corner of her mouth twitch, but the woman had great mercy on him. She did not laugh, only coughed once and hid whatever expression she wore behind a gloved hand. When she spoke again, the words held no spite or scorn.

"Alaslin is my Dalish title. Like Commander is yours, I am Alaslin of clan Lavellan. It means 'First Huntress'. Many people address me with that title, so it's easily confused sometimes. My given name is Shenlira." Her lips curved slightly, cheeks rosy with a blush he didn't want to read too much into. "Please call me that, when we are like this, Cullen." She spoke his name with a lilt that sent a small shiver down his spine. Then, as if time's wheel had just started turning again, she took a step back and gave him a nod that told him he was dismissed. Cullen watched her lead the mount into the stables.

"Shenlira.", he said, too softly for anyone to hear. It felt like she had given him something very personal. A small voice in his mind tried to convince him that this had not been a simple exchange between Commander and Inquisitor, or even companions. But he did not dare to trust that voice. There were all kinds of reasons why he should not feel something beyond duty and loyalty for her. Then again, reason was the first thing to take a leap out the window when it came to matters of the heart.


	2. II The Leaping Arrow

**II. The Leaping Arrow**

 _What do I do when I'm scared shitless? I pick a fight, of course.  
The Iron Bull_

* * *

Again, she dreamed. Again she was powerless to stop them all from dying a painful death. And as every day, she woke, shuddering and drenched in cold sweat, tears stinging her eyes. Shenlira had tried everything against the nightmares. She'd thrown herself into the Inquisition's work with doubled efforts, roaming the Storm Coast after having established a strong foothold in the Hinterlands. Now scouting reports were coming in from the Western Approach, new lands to be investigated. If she fell into her tent or her bed with an almost delirious exhaustion, she was sometimes able to sleep through the night without a nightmare. But it also meant slowly draining herself of all energy, making it harder and harder to hide her exhaustion from her advisors and companions. The nightmares were not the only reason why she went out on field trips so much. Every time Shenlira saw Cullen somewhere around the keep, her thoughts would disobey her and go down very strange roads. She would catch herself daydreaming, remembering him as he'd sung the soldier's song, his deep voice – which, against his own reservations, was quite melodic – perfect for such a tune. When they had sung together, something warm and gentle had spread around her heart and it dawned on her that such a feeling was a dangerous thing. They were in the middle of a war. She didn't have the time or luxury to pine after someone she wasn't even sure liked her. The moment near the stables had been intense and she'd thought, for a moment, that she'd seen something in his eyes, some hint… But he still had not called her by her given name. Then again, she'd fled Skyhold at every chance she'd gotten. Unfortunately, she could not flee for at least a week. The remnants of the templar order had arrived at Skyhold and important decisions had to be made about their future deployment. There was also a meeting with Orleisian nobles scheduled a few days later. Shenlira was confined to the keep. After reading through the morning reports until she almost felt itchy with the need to do something, she decided to find Varric and Bull. Surely they would know something to pass the time.

"We should build you an archery course.", Varric told her promptly. She'd found him and Bull sharing a meal in the tavern by midday, and Bull had immediately agreed to the idea.

"But why?", Shenlira asked them.

"So you can show off a little. You are the Leaping Arrow, after all.", the dwarf said as if it had been the only logical answer. Shenlira looked uncomfortable at the idea of showing off, but the two of them were so engrossed in their planning already that she was simply ignored. They talked about swinging contraptions and obstacles to block her way, and targets so high up it would be a miracle if she'd hit them. Then they told her to be on her way and come to the southern battlements tomorrow by dawn, since the planning of the course had to stay secret. Otherwise, it would be cheating.

"But I'm not the leaping arrow. That sounds ridiculous, arrows should not be leaping.", she protested feebly.

"You will be tomorrow. Off with you, boss.", Bull had dismissed her.

Shenlira spent an apprehensive night wondering if maybe her companions were trying to kill her. As she made her way to the battlements the next morning, she realized that they had actually built her a course. There were no flaming rings to jump through, but Varric and Bull had outdone themselves. Target circles hung high on the towers and from planks they had miraculously built during the night. They had also littered the battlement walls with some obstacles so she could not simply walk along them unhindered. She had to watch her step very carefully and still hit the targets. Varric waited at the starting point, which he'd marked with a strip of white wool around one of the battlement stones.

"Good morning, Leaping Arrow! I hope you are ready for some serious archery.", he greeted her. Shenlira threw a look down the ramparts and suppressed a gulp. If she fell, they would have put her back together with magical glue. She scanned the targets and obstacles and saw that they had fastened some planks to the tower walls, probably as a jumping course to get past the tower.

"This is how it works. You get a point for each time you step onto the battlement walls, but you lose a point if you step down and touch the actual battlement. Three points for each target hit, five if you score a bull's eye. And I don't mean the actual Bull's, he only has one left anyway. Don't shoot that.", Varric explained with a smirk.

"How many targets are there?", Shenlira asked, warming to the challenge, but also wondering if it was not too dangerous to scour the ramparts or climb the watchtowers… It sounded pretty reckless, even considering her usual line of work with the Inquisition.

"Fifteen.", the dwarf said. "Bull's watching from below. He will move along with you and stands ready to catch you if you should fall. He and I will compare points afterwards. Ready?"

"This seems very unsafe…", Shenlira began, but something inside her yearned to rise to the challenge, to prove that she could do this. She was not sure if the constant exhaustion from overdoing her work was making her reckless or if it was some hidden part of her nature. But she stepped onto the starting stone and pulled Heartwood from her back, nocking an arrow. She saw three targets, two of which she could hit with minimal movement. The third wasn't that easy, she needed to move to across the stones and up the tower planks to hit a Bull's Eye.

"On my mark… get set… And go!", Varric said. The world faded around Shenlira as she became the bow in her hands and eye that aimed her arrow. She became the held breath and the shot between heartbeats, scoring the first hit from where she stood, then leaping over an obstacle to the closest free stone, already shooting again as soon as her balance was steady. She crouched and sprang to the first plank, spreading her legs to find purchase, Heartwood humming as her next arrow flew. She shouldered the bow, leapt again to catch a plank further up the tower. Swinging her legs, she catapulted herself upward. The second she'd steadied herself, she saw the target between two tree-branches. People down below were gasping and calling out cheers when she hit, but the sounds were a faint hum at the back of her mind. The complete state of concentration when she shot was something she had learned over long years of training. Hardly anything could distract her now. Rounding the tower, she slipped and missed a stepping stone, landing on the battlements. A point lost, she cursed inwardly.

* * *

"Commander, you have to see this!", a soldier caught Cullen when he was about to enter the throne-room, just having finished a meeting with Cassandra and Leliana. They both stopped behind him to see what the soldier wanted.

"What is it?", Cullen asked curtly.

"The Inquisitor is running through an archery course. It's like nothing you have ever seen before!", the young soldier sounded excited. Cassandra and Leliana exchanged looks of surprise, but Cullen was already on his way. When he stepped out into the courtyard, his heart almost stopped. Shenlira was up on the battlement stones. She pirouetted and cartwheeled over them like a tumbler, shooting targets that hung far up or down low. He watched the mastery of her jumps and shots with dread fascination, and at the same time his insides twisted with fear for her. So recklessly she ran along the ramparts and so deep was the fall she could take with one missed step. His fear made him furious with its intensity and he rushed down the stairs, paying no heed to Cassandra or Leliana who both called out for him to stop. Shenlira was nearing the bend above the armory as she came across an obstacle she saw too late. Her body twisted mid jump to re-adjust. She landed, but only just, swaying precariously.

"No!", Cullen's harsh cry broke her concentration. Her foot slipped. At the last moment, she pushed herself away from the wall and landed on the roof tiles of the armory. Unable to regain her balance, she slid down the slanted roof and tumbled over, but was caught safely by the Bull. Her heart beat like a thunderous drum inside her chest and a roar filled her ears, but still she heard Bull's apology as he set her back on her feet.

"I'm sorry, Boss… But I think you are in trouble." Shenlira shook herself and swayed a little on the spot before she saw that Cullen was bearing down on her. She'd never been afraid of him, but the look on his face now was murderous. His voice trembled with rage.

"By the Maker and all that is holy, I have never seen someone act this reckless and irresponsible!" Shenlira bristled at the accusation and anger in his words. He towered over her like a threatening shadow, and she could see that his hands were shaking.

"I…", she began, but Cullen cut her off.

"You could have fallen and broken your neck, and what for? Some childish archery contest?! Are you out of your mind? You are the leader of Inquisition! Is it not enough that you meet demons in combat and fight Venatori by the scores, do you have to deliberately endanger your life on a whim?", he went on. She was so daunted by his sudden, intense anger that she could not find words to justify herself. It had been reckless and stupid. But that he would yell at her irresponsibility in the middle of the courtyard in front of half the keep made her eye sting with humiliation. The grip around Heartwood was so tight that her knuckles had turned white as its wood. Her gaze was sternly fixed on the Commander's boots. Bull seemed to take pity on her and came to her defence.

"Commander, she only slipped because you yelled and broke her trance –"

"That is not the point and you know it!", Cullen snapped at him. Shenlira spoke then, her voice carrying a chill he had never heard before from her.

"It will not happen again, Commander. But the next time you have something like this to say to me, you better mind not to do it in public. That's an order." She met his eyes then, their grey colour glinting like steel. The look she gave him was cold, hard anger at his outburst. It doused him more effectively than an icy bucket of water. She shouldered her bow and walked past him, past the nobles and keep folk, past Leliana and Cassandra and into the throne room without another word.

Varric had come down from the battlements, frowning at the stricken faces all around him.

"She hit all of them in the Bull's Eye. I can't believe it.", he said, unfazed by Cullen's glowering.

"This reeks of you from here to the Maker's Throne, Varric. It was your idea, wasn't it?", he accused the dwarf.

"It was.", Varric admitted without qualm. "But you will not accomplish anything by yelling and humiliating her in front of the whole keep.", he went on. Cullen looked around then, noticing the faces of the people in the courtyard. Some were giving him accusing stares, while most of the soldiers looked disappointed or gazed with pity at the entrance of the throne room where Shenlira had disappeared. He'd made a terrible mess of things, which did nothing to calm the fear and anger that ran through his blood with every heartbeat. His mind's eye had seen her fall and hit the ground. He'd never felt helpless fear like that in his life, and he'd been through a lot. Self-control was one of his greatest strengths. It frightened him that he would become unhinged so easily.

"Carry on.", he snapped to the soldiers. There was another reason for his terrible temper during the last few weeks, but only Cassandra knew about that. He wasn't ready to tell anyone else yet. Varric eyed him with concern in his golden eyes. The man rarely missed anything.

"I know I might not be the best person for advice…", he began.

"I don't want your advice.", the Commander cut across him, although the bite had gone from his voice.

"Unwanted advice is the best there is. Cullen, you do not catch a flying arrow, and you do not break a wild horse. You aim the arrow, and you run with the horse until it trusts you enough to stay still."

"I don't know what you…", Cullen said, confused about the cryptic message, but the Bull chimed in.

"I thought she was the Leaping Arrow?", the Qunari mused.

"Shut up, Bull. I'm giving advice right now.", Varric shushed him, turning back to Cullen. "Don't try to control her. At least not like this. She'll only ever be half tamed. There is a wild spirit inside her that needs to roam free, otherwise it will wither and die, being confined inside the keep walls. The Dalish are like that, their Alaslin even more so. They are used to the open wilds, to taking leaps into the unknown and landing on their feet. Actually, compared to other Alaslin I have heard about, she seems remarkably restrained.", the dwarf explained earnestly.

"Did you know she sneaks off once a week while everyone is having dinner? I wonder where she goes." This from the Bull again, but his remark went seemingly unheard.

"She endangers her life enough as it is, being in the field all the time. She's exhausted, but she just doesn't stop. And now she has to pile even more danger up on that. Leliana said she sleeps about the time a bird would sleep. It's wearing her down.", Cullen's voice had grown concerned, his face taut. It was at this point that Varric realized what was really bothering the Commander. He worried about Shenlira, much more than he let show. Masking his fear with anger to hide it.

"We know that, Cullen. Who do you think writes the reports on the Inquisitor to Leliana? It's me and Cassandra. I'm not even sure Bull can write at all.", he added, to which the Bull snorted derisively.

"But it's true, Commander. This… archery course was our way of trying to distract her. It seems we went wrong on this one, though.", the Bull admitted in a neutral tone. Cullen let out a deep sigh.

"I acted like a savage idiot, haven't I?", he asked nobody in particular. It was Leliana who answered him.

"While I find what she did reckless too, you could have handled it with more finesse. Savage idiot is probably accurate." The spymaster had been standing close to them without interfering in their conversation, but the knowing look she gave him now unsettled Cullen.

"Thank you, Leliana.", he noted with a little sarcasm. Still, he had often turned to her for advice and even if her vast personal knowledge of the keep's residents was unnerving, Leliana always knew what to do in a tricky situation. "I should apologize.", Cullen said, looking at her uncertainly.

"Yes, you should.", Leliana began. She threw a glance around the keep before continuing. "But not just now. And not without a token of peace.", she told him as if it was an obvious thing.

"A token? What do you mean?" He was confused. Varric gave a light chuckle.

"Haven't you heard the old saying? Never go to a truce or a wedding without a gift. Leliana is right, you should let things cool down a little. And when you do apologize, you should bring an offering to show that you are sincere."

"Like an actual gift? That would be inappropriate-", Cullen began. He almost missed Varric rolling his eyes heavenward and Leliana's slight smirk.

"Not an actual gift, a metaphorical one. She liked the archery course. I agree that it was much too dangerous to repeat it. But you're the Commander, you train countless soldiers every day. How would you let a master archer hone her skills?" As always, Leliana led him on the right path. Cullen pondered this for a moment.

"I see. I think I have an idea that is much less dangerous, at least for her.", he said in a self-deprecating tone. "Could you somehow arrange for me to have a moment alone with her after the war meeting this afternoon?" Again, the spymaster's expression made him uneasy, like she knew better what he was thinking than he himself did.

"Please, I could arrange for you to be dropped outside in the woods with her for a few hours and nobody would be any wiser. At least give me a challenge.", she gave a rare laugh at the stricken look on his face as she walked away.

* * *

Shenlira stood on the balcony of her quarters, looking out over the snow-crested mountains. Dark pine tree woods grew at their feet. She'd always thought they looked like poppy pasties with white sugar icing and suddenly wished that she'd taken one from the kitchens up to her room. But the thought of accidentally meeting Cullen on her way gave her a heartache and chased all thoughts of hunger from her mind. Her mother's music box stood on the small table in a corner of the balcony. It was open, playing the familiar melody of her childhood lullaby. After she practically confined herself and shut the door as clear sign for no one to disturb her, she'd allowed a few stray tears to flow. Why had Cullen's anger hurt her so much? In the back of her mind she knew why, but that did not help the fact that he'd yelled at her, it only made it so much worse. He never yelled in such an unbridled temper, even when he exercised the soldiers. Her righteous ire about the humiliation had somehow evaporated and all it left behind was hurt and sadness. She did not want him to see her as reckless and irresponsible, but what she'd done had been truly that. How could she face him at the war council meeting later that day? The thought twisted her insides into knots. It was some time until she sensed that she was not alone anymore. Whoever it was, she did not want to see them.

"Not right now. Please, leave me.", she tried to sound polite and force the tremble out of her voice, but didn't turn towards the intruder.

"It was fear, you know.", Cassandra's stern tone was a little softer when she spoke. Shenlira wiped her eyes distractedly as she faced her friend.

"What do you mean?", she asked cautiously. Cassandra had stood in the doorway and now walked up to stand next to her. The seeker watched the small figure in the music box turn once with an uncharacteristic, gentle expression.

"I have known Cullen for years now. He's always been contained, composed. Sure, he could train the soldiers with severe discipline. Some even say he's more taciturn than me. But I have never seen him like this. He was afraid today, more than he'd ever admit to himself. The anger was only a mask for that fear.", Cassandra looked her in the eye and held her gaze honestly.

"Fear for what?", Shenlira asked, frowning. Cassandra raised her brows, a gesture that felt like she should know the answer to that question by now.

"Fear that you'd fall." The Inquisitor averted her eyes to look into the distance. The picture Cassandra was painting caused a weak sort of sensation inside her chest, but until now Cullen had not shown any signs that what the seeker suggested was true.

"Because then we'd have no Inquisitor.", Shenlira stated tentatively. Her companion made a sound that was somewhere between annoyance and exasperation.

"Because then we'd have no you.", she corrected. Too flustered to answer coherently, Shenlira looked up at her. "Is it hard for you to believe that there are people who would suffer if you'd get injured or worse? And Cullen is one of them. He reads the reports I write about you with great attention. You try to hide that you're working yourself to exhaustion, but it shows. We might not openly voice it, but we worry about you." Cassandra's words moved in a way that made her throat tighten and burn slightly as she spoke.

"I.. I didn't know that.", she said in a thick voice. Cassandra smiled, just a little crinkle at the corners of her mouth, but Shenlira felt a great gratitude for the seeker's rare show of affection. _We worry about you._ Those words left her lungs aching with a strange, constricted sort of sensation, as though they denied to be filled with sufficient air. Rarely had anyone worried about her. Her father did, of course, but that was different. He had known her for all of her life, the only constant in an ever-changing, shifting world that she usually chose to walk alone. Aside from him and the keeper of her clan, nobody had ever expressed such feelings towards her.

"Now you do. Slow down a little, Shenlira. Then I might not have to face the looks of accusation I get from Josephine and Cullen that I let you raid half the Storm Coast in a week.", she paused for a moment to listen to the music box that still played its soothing melody.

"He will apologize to you soon. I suggest you forgive him this one. You know how it is with crimes of passion…" Leaving Shenlira with a blush and scattered thoughts about the last remark, the seeker disappeared as quietly as she'd come. Only the soft click of the door being pulled shut announced her departure.

* * *

The afternoon war meeting was a sullen and awkward affair. Cullen noted that Shenlira never looked him directly in the eye and conducted her orders with atypical austerity. He worried that he'd broken something beyond repair. Josephine tried to lighten the conversation but soon gave up on that while Leliana was her usual serious self. This wasn't going to be easy. He began to feel the chilly atmosphere as if it were something concrete, a chip of ice at the back of his neck, which made him rub it as he often did when he was uncomfortable. An hour of curt conversation and avoiding gazes later, the Inquisitor looked ready to flee as soon as all the issues had been addressed. She hovered on the spot, shifting her weight while she glanced at the door repeatedly. It reminded him of a skittish animal that would bolt as soon as it saw an opening. And surely enough, not a moment after Josephine confirmed to send diplomats to Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons…

"If there is nothing else-", but a commotion in the courtyard interrupted Shenlira. Somebody down below was singing loudly in utter discord.

"What's this?", Leliana said in surprise. She threw Cullen a wink before she and Josephine retreated, while the Inquisitor walked to the window curiously. He had to marvel at Leliana's resourcefulness, and was even a little amused the plot she'd concocted.

"The Leeeeeeaping Arrow moves liiiike a shadow, watch out y'all evil things!" Varric and Dorian were in the courtyard, arm in arm and most likely hammered out of their wits. A strangled noise escaped Shenlira and she felt her face grow red. When she turned to shut them down before they made fools of themselves, she stopped short. Leliana and Josephine where nowhere to be seen, but Cullen stood at the door. She was alone with him, and he blocked her escape. The caterwauling fell silent a moment later and it dawned on her that she'd been outmanoeuvred like a rabbit herded into a snare. _Damn you interfering, sly, sorry excuses for loyal companions…_

Cullen surveyed her in such a thorough way that she became a nervous mess. She searched for words, words about anything, but it seemed as though she'd forgotten them all. During the war meeting, she'd been comforted by the solid mass of the table between them, yet now he walked around it and within arm's reach of her. It had been some time since their exchange at the stables and his presence suddenly felt overwhelming. The scent of sandalwood and pine needles filled her nose, driving her to distraction. It reminded Shenlira of dense, endless forests with sheltering firs and sweet dew created by thick morning fogs. Desperate, she tried to reign in those unruly, very pleasant thoughts – and failed, pathetically so.

Cullen had deliberately chosen to take this slow, remembering what Varric had told him: Shenlira would only ever be half tamed, and so he approached her as he would approach a wild animal caught in a trap. Which was probably exactly what she felt like. Her eyes were fixated on the hem of his cloak, hands clasped around each other, shoulders stiff, her face tight with some emotion he couldn't name. That posture made her resemble one of those unyielding portaits of iron maiden Knight-Captains that decorated templar chapters all around Ferelden. He decided that honesty and courtesy would be the best course of action here.

"Forgive me.", his voice was low, rich with remorse. Shenlira momentarily forgot her whole unease and looked up to meet his eyes. It was a mistake. The depth and openness in them drew her in like a vortex and she felt her heart quicken uncontrollably. Before she could answer, he reached for one of her hands and bowed low. His grasp was light, gentle, his hands gloved. The brush of his lips on the back of her hand only lasted a second, the fleeting flutter of a bird. Still she felt it sear her skin as though she'd been touched by fire, unable to suppress a gasp. Transfixed, she stared at the top of his blonde head, hair gleaming in the afternoon sun like pagan gold. How much it had cost this proud man to admit a mistake, she could only guess. Suddenly, she didn't want him to apologize. It seemed wrong that he should bow to her in deference, and made her feel the worst kind of surly child about her behaviour. Cullen straightened and his eyes roamed over her face before he spoke again.

"I should not have acted like that in the courtyard, it was disrespectful and cruel. I…", he sounded a little breathless and fell silent for a moment. "I can put soldiers to your flank and guard your back myself on the battlefield. I can try and keep you from harm with careful planning, and sometimes, by fighting by your side. But I could have done nothing today if you had fallen. Nothing at all." He let go of her hand with more reluctance than he'd thought possible and watched her curl it to her chest. She smiled a shy smile, a kind that made him forget to inhale for a moment, as though she was holding a precious keepsake in her hands.

"It's alright, Cullen. I should apologize too… You were right, I was reckless and irresponsible.", she admitted with a sigh. The sudden urge to reach out and touch her face caught him unaware. It bothered him that she looked disheartened after that secret smile that somehow felt like it belonged to him.

"At Haven, you stayed behind… You could have –", he had no idea why he had blurted this out, and he didn't finish the sentence. Its meaning was clear. Instead, he closed his eyes. When they opened again, his gaze was filled with determination. "I will never let anything like that happen again, Shenlira." A variety of expressions chased across her features, from utter surprise that widened her stunning grey eyes to a gentle look that made him ache inside. This had been the first time Cullen had called her by her given name. He was standing so close now that she could see the dark ring around his iris, the tiny specks of gold and green sprinkling the deep brown of his eyes, even the short unshaved bristles on his chin. It seemed he was similarly caught in the magic of the moment, as his gaze dropped to her slightly parted lips and she heard him take a shallow, short breath. A strong swooping sensation rushed through her, followed by a mix of giddy anticipation and anxiety. Something was about to happen. Cullen's head dipped just an infinitesimal bit, leaning forward. The very air felt charged with tension, as though any second now…

But the enchanted moment shattered with a decisive knock on the door. Cullen snapped up as though he'd been slapped awake and a look of utter frustration flashed across his face. With a great effort, he composed himself and took a step back from Shenlira, who had flushed scarlet and seemed suddenly very interested in fussing over her hair. He cleared his throat once and prayed that his voice betrayed nothing of the turmoil he felt as he called "Enter!" to the intruder.

A soldier opened it and saluted him. "We are ready, Commander."

"Thank you, Ruben. We'll be there in a moment.", he dismissed the man with a grateful nod and turned to Shenlira's questioning glance.

"So… You are the Leaping Arrow?", he asked, sounding amused as he led her through the door. The Inquisitor scowled at him, a remnant of her earlier blush still rosy on her cheeks. He couldn't help his mind returning to what he had almost done in the war room. He had been about to lean in to kiss those beautiful lips that sung enticing songs and smiled at him like he was the one person in the world who mattered. What would have happened then, he wondered? Dangerous, dangerous line of thought – and so tempting, Maker help him.

"Oh, not you too – that is a ridiculous name. You'll only indulge people to use it. Arrows do not leap, they fly.", she corrected, half-annoyed, half-amused. They exited the throne room side by side.

"But you do leap. And even though you displayed remarkable skill today, I would like to suggest something that involves a little less possibility of falling from great heights.", Cullen's tone was deliberately light, but she sensed the serious intent behind it. He threw her a quick sideways glance that felt like an assessment if he was straying out of line. It baffled her. They arrived at the courtyard area between the armoury and the tavern when she realized that a good portion of the open space had been fenced off. The battlements had been lined with wooden planks and people stood leaned over the walls. A cluster of young recruits was hovering near the area, their excited whispers like the humming of bees. Cullen stepped over the fence and proceeded to take off his fur-and-feather cloak. He looked no less imposing without it, the polished silver of his armour reflecting the sunlight it caught. She wondered if she would be able to lift the long two-handed sword that hung at his hip. He had a habit of resting his hand on the hilt, a quirk she was rather fond of. But instead, Cullen removed the weapon girdle and gave it to Cassandra, who exchanged it for a practice sword. Shenlira had not even noticed the second man inside the fenced area, but Blackwall did not seem to mind, greeting her with a polite bow now.

"What's this?", she asked the two men curiously. They looked as though they were about to spar. She was even more befuddled when Cassandra handed her something wrapped in black velvet. The folds revealed Heartwood's seamless white yew handle. Somebody had fetched it from her quarters and hadn't dared to handle it with bare hands – they'd actually wrapped it in velvet. She had to laugh at the sweet gesture, earning surprised looks from everyone.

"Who 'stole' my bow and dressed it in royal velvet, oh my faithful ones?", she intoned in a sing-song voice that could have been mistaken for a bard's, if not for the chuckle she tried to suppress.

"That was me.", Cassandra remarked with a concerned frown. "Is it not a holy weapon?"

"I was just jesting…", Shenlira began, but Varric interrupted her as he arrived at the scene.

"I still don't understand why I can't participate in this. It looks like so much fun.", he complained sullenly. Cullen had started to set up several sorts of obstacles around the outer ring of the area – Shenlira immediately understood that some were meant to be jumped over, some others she was supposed to duck under. There was exactly the same amount of space between the obstacles, just wide enough for a relaxed archer stance.

"Because I am genuinely afraid that you will shoot me, just out of spite.", the Commander answered without deviating from his task. He threw Shenlira a humorous look that made her smile.

"Now… I'll explain what we will do. Step inside, please.", he beckoned her. She felt many curious gazes as she stepped over the fence and into one of the free spaces Cullen had left for her. He pointed at the wooden tiles lining the wall in front of them.

"First of all, that wall is marked with lines for the points. If you hit something above the first line, one point. Below that until this second line, two points. The next line gives three. Your targets will, for now, be snowballs thrown by the people on the battlements.", Cullen explained. She nodded her understanding. Until now, it was simple enough.

"But here comes the hard part. You cannot simply stand there for the whole exercise. After three shots, you will have to move to another free space, and never to the same twice in a row." To this too, she nodded. Cullen inhaled deeply and went on.

"The last thing is to make it resemble an actual fight even more. And so Blackwall has agreed to take on the unlucky task of sparring with me in this inner circle while you shoot the targets." He pulled the practice sword from its sheath and straightened his shoulders. Shenlira had gone pale at what he was suggesting.

"I can't – I can't shoot at you!", she exclaimed, horrified. "This is supposed to be _less_ dangerous?" Cullen sought her eyes and his hand came up to rest on her shoulder reassuringly. His voice dropped to a low pitch so only she could hear what he said.

"You shot your first arrow when you were five winters old. I have never seen anyone who could breathe life into a bow like you, Shenlira. You won't hit me." She secretly wondered how he knew this. Had he taken the time to read up on elven customs, with all the other responsibilities he had? The large hand on her shoulder gave a gentle squeeze. His utter confidence overwhelmed her and at the same time it was disconcerting that he would trust her skills this far without reservations. She watched as he took up a fighting stance in the centre of the ring across from Blackwall. They both raised their swords.

"We will start with two targets at a time. Ready?" No, she wanted to tell him, but the eager looks she was getting from all around her made it impossible to wiggle out of this without a fuss. And Cullen had known that. Cursing him inwardly, she placed her feet in the archer's pose and, after a deep sigh, nodded. Cullen gave a sign to the throwers and she had a second's notice before he rushed forward as the snowballs were thrown from the battlements.

The first round went very badly. Shenlira shot and leapt over the obstacles, but she was so distracted by the intense clashes of the two men's swords and so apprehensive to accidentally hit either of them that she deliberately let half of the targets through without shooting. When the second round did not bring much improvement, Cullen paused the exercise and walked up to her, frowning slightly.

"What are you doing, Shenlira? You are hitting them so far above our heads, I could be twice this tall and there'd still be room left." He was a little out of breath from the exertion, his golden hair an unorderly mess, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the fight. And he'd never been more handsome, she thought ruefully. She'd noticed how a few women had joined the small watching crowd to gawk at him. It made her answer come out disgruntled and sullen.

"You are tall enough already.", she muttered. Cullen's eyebrows shot upwards in a look of surprise.

"What?" Since she didn't seem inclined to reply, he went on. "Try to aim lower. You are being deliberately careful – quite the opposite of the reckless woman from this morning. Maybe there is some middle ground in between?" This last he said in a way that sounded like an endearment, as though it was something he admired about her.

It took more than a few turns until she lost some of her reservation and fear. A leap and three shots, a slide and two more, and each round she hit them lower down the wooden wall. The two men sparred, paying attention neither to her nor the arrows that zoomed above their heads. They seemed to have no qualms about being shot whatsoever. But she saw that Cullen would sometimes give her a quick glance to check her position and readjust his own to give her clear shots. He would even call instructions to the watching recruits, to "Watch her stance!" or "Look closely at the aim!", until she realized they were fledgling archers in training. The exercise he had invented was not just for her – he had taken the opportunity to train himself and motivate the archers to higher goals. Over the turns, Shenlira got used to the way he moved and had to marvel at his swordsmanship. Blackwall never scored a direct hit on him, and despite his heavy armour and limited agility, Cullen fought with a deadly grace and discipline she learned quickly to hold in high regard. Like watching great cats hunt, accomplished predators who relied on strength as much as on speed. She stopped counting the turns they took, stopped worrying over every shot, stopped thinking altogether. That was the moment when she could slip into the archer trance to hit targets mere inches above the men's heads or even just above their clashing swords, could leap like a tumbler without slipping, could become the shot between heartbeats. She had not noticed the excited grin across her face until Cullen called a halt to everyone.

Both he and Blackwall were breathing heavily, sweaty from their vigorous sparring, their hair covered with a thin layer of powdery snow.

"Did you see this one?", the Grey Warden asked, pointing at an arrow that had hit the space between them on eyelevel.

"I felt it even, the rush of speed as it flew.", Cullen answered. His voice was rich with a keen emotion, the kind one saw in teachers when they watched their students achieve something extraordinary. He turned to the recruits, who were standing near the fence with looks of awe.

"Never neglect your training and always aspire to become better. I wanted you to see a demonstration by a master archer so you understand the importance of stance and breathing. I teach you the basics that you despise much, but they are the foundation on which all mastery is built. You're still green as spring buds. But some day those things will become second nature to you and free your concentration completely to the aim. So much so that you will be able to shoot a target between two sparring soldiers within an opening of mere seconds.", he showed them the shot that Blackwall had commented as he taught the archers their lesson. The praise made her a little uncomfortable, but she understood that he had restored the aura of respect for her position after marring it with the scene in the courtyard, and she appreciated that gesture a great deal. When the Commander had thanked Blackwall and dismissed the soldiers, he walked up to her again, running a hand through his damp hair. Shenlira's ears burned a little when she picked up a soft gasp from one of the women who had been gawking at him, but Cullen seemed oblivious. Exhilaration and pride danced in his eyes as he looked at her.

"I knew you wouldn't hit me.", he said, smiling so openly, it was like looking into a bright light. Shenlira could not help but to return it.

"I didn't. Your confidence in me borders on the insane.", she pointed out. Then, without thinking, "It was really fun. Did you see me jump two obstacles at once? I didn't hesitate, I just did it, and then this one target, it was just above your shoulder and falling, so I had to circle you again – but then Blackwall swung at you, and…" She noticed her rambling and stopped immediately. If Cullen had needed confirmation that he had done the right thing, her excitement made him perfectly sure. "Thank you, Cullen.", her voice was quiet, but steeped in earnest gratitude.

"If it pleased you so much, we will make it a regular thing." As he walked away in the dying daylight, Shenlira wondered how she could ever bear to see him hurt, a man who would invent a whole exercise for her to underline a simple apology. Heartwood hummed in solemn assent to the promise she made to herself. She would protect the things close to her heart, at whatever cost.


	3. III With This Line I'll Mark My Past

**III. With This Line I'll Mark My Past**

 _It will make you stronger than you have ever imagined you'd be. The first time, you will feel as though you could shake the world in its foundations. Your body sings the song that holds the earth in place. And as the time passes, that feeling will become a little shorter, a little less intense, but it taunts you that one day, you might reach it again. Become one with that which is so much greater, beyond comprehension. Years will pass until you realize that each time you give in, you pay a price. It will take pieces of you, the smallest things in the beginning, tiny sips from the cup that is your soul. The smile of a passer-by on the street. The fragrance of flowers in the airy spring breeze. The laughter of your sister when you played hide-and-seek that summer long ago. And before you know, you will grow smaller, less, as more and more of you is chipped away. You forget your mother's name, and the grief when a brother dies by the sword, and what hope and love feel like, until you are hollow and empty and human no more. Is this truly what the Maker intended?  
Scroll found in a hut near Redcliffe, Author Unknown_

* * *

The week until her next departure to the Storm Coast passed much too quickly, Shenlira thought. When she had returned, all she could think about was to leave again. _Now you don't want to go, hypocrite._ , her conscience piped. The nagging suspicion that this change of heart had to do with Cullen was like a pebble stuck in her boots. She liked spending time with him. She found all sorts of excuses to visit his tower room and go through some report or other together. Remembering how she'd found him playing chess with Dorian one afternoon made her smile. He had insisted that she stayed, and they had played until evening fell. Shenlira hovered at the door of her quarters. Dressed for leaving Skyhold already, Heartwood lay comfortingly against her back. Reluctance made her check and recheck everything twice. _You are stalling_. The better she was getting to know Cullen, the stronger he wedged himself into the little gaps between her thoughts, until it seemed he'd taken up a permanent residence there. Dare she hope that he cared about her in return? He smiled more often while they talked, almost fondly… But she had sometimes noticed him looking at her with guilt in his eyes, as though he had done something shameful. She could not understand it. Everything was fine. Was it? Halfway through the courtyard she met Varric, who was just exiting the armory with a colourful curse.

"They broke Bianca's handle, can you believe it?", he called to Shenlira, his voice as though he'd suffered some mortal insult. "I know you wanted to leave by nightfall. But I need to repair the damage these dunderheads did. Mark my words, Inquisitor. Never let an amateur repair your weapons. Unbelievable!" The dwarf went on complaining while she tried to keep a straight face. Her gaze wandered unwillingly to the light coming from the arrow-slits of the middle watchtower. Surely, he was still working on some correspondence, quill scratching away on the parchment as candlelight danced over his face. Shenlira could picture it so well, almost as if she stood in the study right then. He would greet her in that earnest, kind fashion of his, and inexplicably his features would lose all strain and severity… Maybe she should drop by with those scout reports from the Wastes…

"And you are not hearing a word I say, I guess.", Varric sounded amused. "I used bird droppings as shaving cream today. What do you think of that?"

"What?", Shenlira twitched as though stung by a needle and her attention snapped back to him. "I'm sorry Varric, what did you say?"

"Nothing at all. Anyway, I'm sorry to delay our next excursion, but we won't be able to leave until dawn. Maybe you should use the time to… bid goodbye to someone?", he suggested conspiringly. Shenlira felt her face burn, but she narrowed her eyes at her companion in suspicion.

"What are you suggesting here, Varric?", she asked with a drawl. The dwarf stepped a little closer and his voice was suddenly serious.

"I'm suggesting that you shouldn't deny yourself something that makes you stronger. Maybe even happy. Life is too short, Shenlira. For most of us, it is just a few fleeting moments of joy, followed by regret for all the chances we did not take. Will you be like that?" He left her there to ponder those meaningful words, wondering how this light-hearted joker could give out such profound advice at the same time. In the end, she decided to take his advice and not deny herself saying goodbye to Cullen before she left for the next mission. It was never possible to say how long she'd be gone on these assignments and after their intense conversation in the war room she knew that he worried about her.

A sort of giddy happiness had taken hold of her when she quickly exchanged Heartwood for the scouting reports and climbed the battlements with a certain verve in her step. But just at the door to Cullen's tower she stopped short. Raised voices were arguing on the other side, and it did not sound good.

"Knight-Commander, I implore you to reconsider-", a fairly familiar voice, she noted. Male, deep and disciplined… but Shenlira could not quite place it. In any case, whoever spoke was interrupted mid-sentence.

"Do not call me that! I left the Templar Order and I don't wish to go back. How many times have I told you no?" This from Cullen, brimming with agitation just short of yelling.

"The Inquisitor has given us a chance to save what is left of our Order. You could help us – help us restore what we once were!" She recognized him then: It was Knight-Templar Barris, or rather Knight-Commander now of what was left of the Templars. He seemed to be trying to convince Cullen to return to the order – as their leader.

"No!", Cullen's refusal was absolute. There was a moment of silence that seemed deafening. "The Inquisitor has given you a great mercy by allowing you to go on. I'm not even sure I agree with her decision not to disband the Order." Heavy footsteps sounded through the room, reminding her of a caged lion's nervous pacing.

"I will never return to that life. When the demons took over our mages, I saw my brothers tortured and killed. I saw Templars go mad and cut down mages they'd watched over for all of their lives. And then mages turn on those they had called brothers. The edge between protection and tyranny blurred and bred violence and contempt, until it spawned one endless bloodshed. And now? An Envy demon overtaking the order, abominations made out of proud warriors, corruption at the very heart of what we were. It just never ends. Can't you understand why I don't want to go back to that?" His proud voice was so deeply laced with pain and tortured memories, Shenlira had to force herself not to barge in on their conversation.

"What hope do we have left in this bleak picture you paint of us, brother?", Barris sounded wounded by Cullen's blunt words.

"You can do better than me. I sacrificed so much… And in the end, I could not change anything. That part of my life… It's over now. I can't go back, never. This is where I belong. Do not ask this of me again. The answer will always be no." A loud crack! startled her, like wood hitting wood, and then a scraping noise. She couldn't fathom what it was. "And take this away.", Cullen added. It sounded as though Barris had handed him something revolting. A long pause.

"No. If you are really done, then you destroy it.", the Knight-Commander spoke tightly. Shenlira heard his footsteps and bolted to hide behind the opening door, but lucky for her Barris exited the one on the other side. Absolute silence fell. Slow minutes ticked by and she found it inexorably hard to wait for a reasonable amount of time before it felt safe to knock.

"Enter.", Cullen answered after a seemingly endless moment. Shenlira stepped inside to find his tall form leaning against the fireplace mantle. His head rested against one arm, while he held out a hand to the high flames. She noted that this was the first time she saw his hands ungloved, and also that he kept flexing his long fingers in a way people did when they were stiff with cold. Cullen did not turn to see who'd entered, but instead proceeded to look into the fire. Something was very wrong.

"Whatever it is, just leave it on the table and be on your way." She bristled at the clipped tone of his voice, but there was also a bone-deep weariness in it that worried her. Some weeks ago, she might have bolted had he spoken to her like this. But now she decided to ignore his remark and make her presence known.

"Cullen?" At the sound of Shenlira calling his name, he lifted his head in alarm. Maker help him, why now? This was a bad time for her to come here. He had woken with a headache as though a drill was trying to force its way out of his skull, then his joints had pained and stung until it was hard to move without stumbling. Why did his hands just not seem to get warm? They were always cold.

And now he felt an episode coming, one of those where his temper could lash out from the pain and he would lose focus on reality. All of these things were symptoms of Lyrium withdrawal, which he had successfully hidden from her until now. But then again, this was an episode, and she likely wasn't even here. Why was she here? Had his longing to see her conjured her up? The edges around her small frame blurred and shimmered and he forced his eyes shut, unsure if she'd still be there when he opened them or if he'd find that a demon from his nightmares had taken her place.

"I thought you left for the Coast. Why are you here?" In the back of his mind Cullen knew that the comment sounded immensely callous. If this by any chance was real, he was rampaging around in the garden of their fragile, growing relationship like an idiot. But that just did not seem to matter right now. Shenlira regarded him with open concern. Sweat shone on his brow, which was deeply furrowed in an expression of pain. Dark shadows pooled under his eyes and his whole face was a pale, rigid mask. It was unsettling and she immediately knew that he was not himself.

"I got held up and have to delay until dawn tomorrow. Never mind that. Cullen, you look terrible. Something's not right – what is it?" She walked forward and boldly reached out a hand to touch his arm. He stiffened at once but didn't pull away, instead he stared at her hand as though seeing something like that for the first time. If she hadn't known better, she'd say he was drunk. But he never drank and drunks usually felt less pain, while he seemed to be in a great deal of it. Her remark was ignored as he mustered all of his concentration to bring her face into focus. The grey-blue of her eyes shimmered like an iridescent gem. A gem beneath the surface of a great glacier lake, its depths unknowable and strange, but so enticing. In that instant, he would gladly have plunged into those fathomless waters and drowned himself searching for what lay hidden there. Her hair, on the other hand, was a dancing flame in the firelight and he wondered if it would burn him if he touched it.

"You are fire and ice, both at the same time.", Cullen told her without restraint and followed it up with a short laugh. Shenlira looked at him like he'd gone insane. Disconnected as he was from reality, his mind made strange leaps with no logic or sense whatsoever.

"You left the templar order intact instead of joining it completely to the Inquisition. Why would you do such a thing?", he wondered, but she got the distinct feeling that he was talking to a ghost of her that wasn't really there. She thought about calling for help, but again, somehow she knew he would not want anyone to see him like this. Whatever was wrong, he'd never have behaved like this to her had he been in his right mind.

"Cullen, please – how can I possibly answer that when there is clearly something very wrong with you. You aren't even making sense. It frightens the wits out of me. Please-", she was cut off when, out of nowhere, his hand came up to her face. His touch felt icy cold and yet so gentle, as though he was handling a precious, fragile thing he was afraid to break. These were hands that swung a two-handed sword like a rapier, but were feather-light on her skin. Words got stuck inside her throat and she went very still, letting his fingers roam over her high cheekbones, the angle of her jaw, the soft slope of her neck. He brushed over the place where her pulse thrummed with the frantic beat of her heart. Shenlira watched his clouded eyes widen in disbelief.

"What's this?", he spoke softly. "Like a bird's wings." Tilting his head, he seemed to listen for a while. "No, that can't be right. You don't…", the words trailed away, unfinished. Could one hallucinate the scent of lilac and rosemary, or the softness of a woman's skin, he wondered? _Don't truly be here_. No, a pride in peril whispered those treacherous words. _Maker, I wish you really were here._

"And yet, you're so warm." His expression was rueful as he lifted his hand from her throat. _No!_ Shenlira wanted to cry out with frustration, frustration that he'd stopped, that he would not tell her what was wrong, that he was being incoherent and difficult and making her feel helpless.

"Please, if you won't tell me what is wrong, at least tell me how to help you. What can I do?" The almost desperate pleading in her voice reached something inside Cullen that had retreated to the farthest corner of his mind. He turned and pawed at the clasps that held his armor in place, but his hands were numb, unresponsive things.

"Help me take this off. It's so heavy… constricting. I can't take a breath." Shenlira only wavered for a moment before she reached for him, first removing his cloak and then loosening the straps at his side. When she helped him lift it off, Cullen gave a groan of relief that made her wonder how he endured being confined in the thing all day long. He wore a dark red tunic beneath the armor, but this was the most… naked she'd ever seen him. _Focus! Now is not the time for such thoughts_ , she chided herself. She noted how he moved like a person in great pain, even though being able to take some deep breaths seemed to help him. With immense effort, Shenlira pushed his desk chair close to the fire and coaxed him to sit down. She offered him water or food and asked him over and over if she should send for someone, but he denied categorically. When she cajoled for the fifth time what else she could do for him, the look he gave her was quizzical.

"Sing.", he said as he leaned his nape against the back of the chair. "I don't know if you are real. If you aren't, my imagination will not do your voice justice. But still… Sing for me, please." _Oh you stubborn man… How can you sound ashamed making such a simple request?_ She had to swallow the thickness in her throat twice before she found the power of speech again. The song she chose was one her mother had always sung while weaving at her loom. And as she sang, she walked to Cullen and her warm hands wrapped around his cold fingers. They were tiny, but she meticulously rubbed warmth back into the numb skin and all the while her song was tireless. It washed over him, bringing with it an unstoppable wave of weariness. The pain eased, the clamped-up muscles in his shoulders relaxed, and he suddenly felt tired, so very tired, as though he had not slept for years. He let her voice carry him, light and soft and gentle, over into a painless, dreamless sleep.

Only when Cullen's breathing had become deep and even did Shenlira fall silent. He'd fallen asleep. Try as she might, she could make no sense of the strange encounter she had just gone through. Careful not to wake him, she put two logs on the fire, when she noticed a bright gleam of blue on the floor. Picking it up and rolling the small metal cylinder between her fingers, she realized what it was: A container filled with Lyrium. The mineral shimmered through the tiny glass windows like a patch of cloudless sky. Suddenly, her mind was racing ahead of itself. The conversation between Cullen and Barris flashed through her head. _Take that away,_ Cullen had said, like "that" had been something repulsive. And surely enough, Shenlira spied a wooden casket on his massive desk. She opened the lid and found what she had expected. The insides held all the items templars needed to take their daily Lyrium doses. Looking at the container closely, she saw that it was still sealed and full to the brim. It had not been used. Neither have any of the others.

Her heart turned over in her chest when the realization hit her. Everything made sense now. Little that she knew about templar habits and Lyrium, it was enough to make her terrified for his sake. She'd been briefed by Leliana when she'd joined forces with the order. Templars who stopped or for some reason had no access to Lyrium suffered severe withdrawal over months. Some went insane, others simply didn't make it. And he had stopped. In secret. How much had that cost him? Why hadn't he told her? Shame, pride, guilt? _I would have been there for you. Trust me_! She flung that thought towards him with a passion that should have taken physical form, if such a thing were possible. Of course it wasn't. Shenlira was suddenly sure that Cullen had gone through incredible measures not to show any sign of his pain and suffering. Possibly nobody else knew about this. No, not nobody. He would have taken care to elect a trustworthy person to watch him. That was just how seriously he took his duties. And as the last gear clicked into place in her mind, she knew who she had to find, and soon.

But every fibre of her body screamed against leaving him like this. To soothe her conscience, she sat down at the small side-table in one corner of the room and spent the time one whole candle-wick took to burn watching him. She looked for any sign of unrest, nightmares, physical discomfort while she filed methodically through some reports. But Cullen slept on, undisturbed, his face void of all tension. However she had worked this miracle, Shenlira hoped its magic would last through the night. For the moment, it seemed that she'd done all that she could for him. Before leaving on silent hunter's steps, she pulled a fresh piece of parchment from his desk and wrote a note. Then she blew out the candles so no one would disturb his sleep. Heavy sorrow burdened her heart when the door closed behind her noiselessly. And at the same time, she felt hollow, as though she'd left most of herself behind with him.

* * *

When Cullen awoke, it was from the uncomfortable stiffness in his neck and the direct shaft of sunlight that had reached his eyes. For a moment all he could think about was the stinging pain that shot through his nape as he straightened. He'd fallen asleep in front of the fire in his desk chair. Spending the night like this had made him sore, but he felt his lungs expand freely with a deep breath. _Head painless?,_ he mused, baffled. Until the memory hit like an avalanche. His hand went to his chest – no armour. And it was warm. Warm… Like the skin beneath his fingers, the fluttering pulse reminiscent of a frantic bird. Skin that gave off a scent of lilac and rosemary. He almost choked on the shock that it had been real. _No, no, no, it can't be_. If she had seen him in such a state… Pacing through the room with a feeling that was just a little short of panic, his gaze caught something on his desk. The Lyrium box was still where he'd left it, the blasted thing. But next to it, report parchments were arranged into a neat little pile. The uppermost one wore comments written in a delicate, feminine hand and her signature graced the bottom of the page. A folded note had been laid right in the middle of the desk. It carried his name. The C almost looked as though done in calligraphy. Or elven script. Cullen's mouth felt dry like the Hissing Wastes. He simultaneously dreaded and wanted nothing more than to read the note and therefore spent a long time just looking at it, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that everything he remembered about last night had actually happened. _You utter fool._ A sigh escaped him, one that felt laden with too many emotions to name them all. Finally, he opened the note.

 _Cullen,_

Shenlira had written.

 _Before you worry yourself into knots about what happened, please know this: Nothing has changed about the way I see you. I will tell you this in person to reaffirm it when I return._

 _Having said that, I regret that my assignment at the Coast could not be postponed and I had to leave at first light. Still, I feel the need to answer the question you asked me. You wanted to know why I left the Templar Order intact, giving them freedom over their future, when this war is done with. This, it seemed to me, was very important to you._

 _I do not claim to understand all there is to your Maker and the faith that is such an intricate part of your People. I admire this unwavering resolve in humanity. Such a thing is beyond my judgement. But I have to believe that the actions of one leader gone wrong cannot destroy the foundations of a belief that has endured for a thousand years. Everything gone wrong deserves a chance to be made right._

 _If we start wiping out the pillars of your culture left and right, what will remain of it in the end? And what would your People have learned from such an example, to avoid further bloodshed, or to fear the Inquistion?_

 _My decision was made with the sincere hope that things might change after the shaking disaster that was Therinfal. That those who lived would see it as a crossroads and maybe, walk the righteous path this time, by taking heed not to repeat the mistakes of the past._

 _I bid you, when you doubt yourself, when things seem bleak, when your decisions waver, remember this:_

 _And if rain brings winds of change,  
Let it rain on us forever  
With this line I'll mark my past,  
As a symbol of beginning. _

_And then, come and find me._

 _My thoughts ride with you, [here a word had been written in elven script]  
Until I return, I remain Yours,  
Lira_

"Lira.", he repeated the name she'd signed it with, testing its sound on his lips. It felt like a benediction, a soft, lyrical endearment. By giving him permission to use it, she had allowed him into a very private part of her world. He could not rightly explain why, but he sensed that this name, just as the peculiar little smile of hers, belonged to him. It had been granted and somehow, speaking it seemed to evoke a profound feeling, a spell… A promise. At least this much he knew about matters of the heart, although it suddenly made him even more ashamed, mortified about his behaviour the night before. And very nervous about seeing upon her return.

 _I remain Yours._ Yours, with a capital Y. Cullen read and reread the note until he had committed the last few lines to memory. Then he copied the elven word he was unable to read and folded the note twice, before hiding it in the small pocket inside his tunic. He would keep her words, and the deep affection he felt radiating from them, close to his heart.


	4. IV As A Symbol Of Beginning

**IV. …As A Symbol Of Beginning**

 _Never do you realize how isolated you are, how you fumble for connection, clumsy, like children. Never do you know what you seek when you feel too strongly, when loneliness splinters you to little pieces. So much time has passed, and yet in each of you, it burns, like an imprint. To be whole again. But your words are clunky and your bodies lock your souls inside. You need to bump into each other to connect at all. Never do you realize how much more you could be, if you only let fall the Veil that separates you.  
Am I the only one who remembers?  
_

 _Scroll found near the ruins of Haven, Author Unknown_

* * *

"You should have told me.", the Inquisitor's voice was forbidding, making the mount beneath her dance sideways a little. Nimhue's wide antlers forced Cassandra to fall back just a bit, which gave her a very good look at the daggers Shenlira was staring at her over her shoulder. Yet the seeker seemed unfazed as she readjusted the straps of her shield and sighed. Dorian and Varric rode a good measure behind them and were probably having an endless discussion about wine, or brandy, or whichever drink it was this time.

"I don't disagree. Dozens of times I suggested to him that he should tell you. But he refused like the stubborn man that he is.", Cassandra explained, her sharp eyes roaming over the hill road they were travelling down. There was a steep slope to their right, which made Shenlira uneasy. She liked to have the advantage of the higher ground and felt vulnerable like this. If they were ambushed, she was a sitting duck. But until now, all had been quiet, except for the rushing sound of the endless rain. It just never stopped raining at this place, and Shenlira's mood was gloomy enough already. She worried about Cullen and how he might be feeling right now, and if he'd read the note, and what he might be thinking about…

"Why hide it at all, Cassandra?", she glanced at the seeker from the corner of her eye, deciding that it was probably time to ease up on her. If she had promised Cullen not to tell anyone about his Lyrium withdrawal, then she couldn't be blamed for keeping that promise. The other woman's gaze was quizzical.

"I would guess because he did not want to risk anyone's disappointment. Especially yours.", Cassandra said, but there was no sarcasm or jest in her voice. When she noticed Shenlira's expression of disbelief, she went on. "You can look at me like that, but you know it's true. It is the Templar way, this strong sense of duty and honor, and protection."

"I know. But… This one text said… He could die. He could go insane from it. That's…", her words trailed away and her hands tightened around the reins until it was painful. Nimhue nickered at her in alarm. Cassandra saw the paleness that had spread across the Inquisitor's face and immediately tried to disperse her fears.

"The worst part is already over. He still has some pain and bad days every now and then, but it's been months. He will continue to improve, I am very sure.", the seeker ran one hand through her short black hair, dispersing raindrops into all directions. They were allowed a brief reprieve from the downpour, it seemed.

"I just… feel like I should have been better prepared.", Shenlira hadn't realized she had said this out loud. Almost instantly, she felt her face turning red and hot and Cassandra shooting her a look that was both astonished and curious.

"Why are you blushing? What happened?", she questioned, "Something happened." It was the closest to thing to 'girly' excitement that Shenlira had seen from the seeker, except maybe when she was reading romance novels.

"I… I went to say good-bye and he was having some kind of episode. Disconnected, as if he was not sure what was real. He thought I wasn't real, either. He would say one thing and then his mind would leap to something completely different and… he'd… do things he normally would never do." In her mind, she went through that strange and yet very revealing encounter. She'd learned that beneath his careful discipline, a burning ardour that longed to be unleashed lay dormant. Even if only for a little while, he yearned to let go of all caution and just be himself. But Shenlira sensed that years of restraint kept that other self under lock and key. The thought grieved her.

"What things?", Cassandra prompted her, a fervent interest gleaming in her eyes.

"I – That… Never mind what things. Somehow, I coaxed him to sit down in front of the fire… He seemed to relax a little. I sang until he fell asleep.", she ended the story.

"You sang him to sleep? That is… the most romantic thing I have heard since a long time." Cassandra sounded sincere, but Shenlira gave a tortured groan. The seeker seemed unperturbed. "I wonder what he will have to say to you when you return."

"My life is just another romance novel to you, isn't it?", she said in a sort of mock lamentation.

"It's much more exciting than a novel, I imagine. But you could write it, in a few years…", the seeker smiled a knowing smile. Shenlira readied a scathing answer when she felt the back of her neck prickle with awareness. Even then, she was almost too late.

Ripping the reins to the side so her mount collided with Cassandra's saved her from the first arrow.

"Ambush!", Shenlira yelled, Heartwood already loaded and drawn. As her arrow flew and hit the Venatori archer up on the slope, she cursed inwardly. Sitting ducks, indeed.

* * *

Cullen found Solas in the big circular room that the elf had claimed as his. He'd never been here before except in passing, not having much reason to seek out the strange, mysterious mage. Furthermore, him being a former Templar and Solas basically an apostate... Whatever topics came up in such an encounter would surely be controversial. But Cullen had to marvel at the transformation the room had gone through. A mural spanned almost half of the wall, showing howling wolves beneath a stylized Inquisition emblem, the sword with the watchful eye. Cullen noted the peculiar design of the brushstrokes, which was probably traditional elven style. Cultural subtleties or studying folklore had never been expected from him, and as such he felt a little inadequate in Solas' presence. Noticing that someone had entered, Solas looked up from a book he'd been perusing. At the sight of Cullen, a brief look of surprise crossed his elven features.

"Commander Cullen.", the neutral greeting came with a small bow. "I don't think I ever had you visit me before. Can I help you with something?" His voice was respectful but also felt as though he liked to put some distance between him and the rest of the world.

"Actually, I wondered if you could translate something for me.", Cullen pulled out the paper on which he'd copied the word from Shenlira's note and handed it to Solas. The elf's eyebrows lifted in something close to astonishment.

"Are you perchance interested in ancient elven legends, Commander?", he asked instead of answering – this was a distinct elven habit he already knew from Shenlira. Sometimes it could be insufferably hard to get a straight answer out of her, too. She would pivot and divert him with questions, until he was left wondering what they were even discussing. Solas turned and seemed to seek something on his vast bookshelf, explaining as he went.

"This word reads 'Sajnalin'. It is the name of a fabled creature of yore.", Solas pulled a book from the shelf and filed through it.

"What sort of creature was it?", Cullen wondered.

"A mountain lion. Here, see.", he turned the book and laid it open on the desk before Cullen. There was an illustration that covered the whole left page, resembling Solas' murals in style and brushwork. A creature that looked like a cross between an Orleisian lion and a panther stood on a mossy bluff, surrounded by pine trees. It was leaner, more nimble than the muscular Orleisian lion, yet more regal than the smooth panther, its golden mane a symbol of a long and proud life. Below, other lions gathered, but all of them were looking up at the one above, the leader. "This is Sajnalin. Few of the oldest legends remain, much to the People's grief. But the elves believe that when the world was still young, great beasts with immortal souls walked the land. They taught the ancient elves much, and some remain as symbols of virtue. This is a book of fables, and there are a good few about Sajnalin in here." Cullen ran his hand over the strange elven rune-script that covered the right page of the book.

"What does he symbolize?" He wondered why Shenlira had chosen this name. Solas seemed to ponder this question for some time.

"He stands for many things. Strength, of course. Nobility of spirit, I would say. But most of all, tenacity. Sajnalin was the leader of his pride, and any leader with any amount of skill has to be able to protect, endure and take responsibility. This reflects in many lessons taught to Dalish children who are groomed for important roles." Cullen did not speak for a while, his gaze fixed on the image in the book and his thoughts somewhere far away, on a stormy coast. Tenacity. Was that what she thought he was? It felt both empowering and humbling, at the same time. _I hope I can live up to this meaningful name you have given me, Lira. I could not bear your disappointment._

"What happened to him?", he finally asked, to which Solas gave a shrug and shook his head.

"Nobody knows what made the spirit animals disappear. Many think that, as we became mortal, they did too. And so spirit animals were simply the ancestors of those we know today. Others think that we lost our connection to them when we built great cities and stopped roaming the wild places of the earth. Yet others believe they disappeared into the Fade and turned into spirits of wisdom."

Cullen could not truly say why, but he found that their unknown fate saddened him.

"Much of your culture was lost when your cities were destroyed by the Imperium." Cullen didn't know a lot about elven history, but this at least was part of both people's past. The mage regarded him, his expression unreadable.

"I don't think we ever had a conversation this long. It… surprises me that you are interested in our culture and legends. This book has a lot of illustrations of the fables that survived the great sundering. Please, feel free to borrow it.", Solas said sincerely, pushing the book towards him. Cullen eyed him with doubt.

"But I can't read the script.", he pointed out.

"True. But you can always come back and we can talk about the stories that go with the illustrations. Although the Alaslin Lavellan might be a better lore-keeper than me, concerning legends from the wilds. I specialize more in ruins and their history, and the Fade."

"Shenlira is a lore-keeper?", Cullen sounded too curious, even to his own ears. He tried to back-paddle by clearing his throat and adding, "I thought Alaslin were scouts and hunters." But Solas' enigmatic eyes had registered his strong interest.

"They are. But they are also taught clan legends, songs and poetry that has been passed down through the generations, and they bring new stories and songs back from their meetings with humans or other elves. With their help, the knowledge of the past is preserved and widened. Or so the Dalish hope." It was strange how Solas never exactly referred to the elves as though he was a part of them, always it was 'they' instead of 'we'. Cullen fleetingly wondered why. It seemed a much too personal question to ask, though.

Soon, the mage turned back to the book he'd been reading before, giving him the feeling that he'd been dismissed. So he left, taking the elven fable book with him, and went to Josephine to request a translation sheet for elven runes. If the ambassador found this unusual, she showed no sign of it.

* * *

The Inquisitor leaving for important assignments did not mean that he or the rest of the keep could relax, on the contrary. Leliana's ravens would constantly bring news about troops requested here, a fort liberated and in need to be manned there, supplies needing to be restocked… And many other things that required a Commander's attentions. But he found it hard to return to his usual routine since Shenlira had left for the Storm Coast after that very evocative evening. Cullen wanted to tell her a great deal of things, the exact dangers and possible consequences of his actions first and foremost. She needed to know that he might not be fit to be her Commander much longer, but that thought somehow terrified him at the same time. Who would protect her then? But he'd promised his best to the Inquisition, and if he couldn't concentrate because he had periods of lost time and distorted reality… If he started making mistakes, losing his mind… He remembered the look on her face that night, those blue-and-gray eyes filled with the desperate need to help him somehow, to bring him back to sanity. And her voice, the perseverance with which she'd sung, but yet she'd made it so gentle… Like a lullaby. If she could only sing to him every night, that might have been enough to keep his nightmares at bay. He struggled to summon the memory, the sound and sensation of her to his inner eye, frustrated when he failed pitifully.

Cullen spent a few distracted days, but he had no bad episodes or serious pain except for headaches in the morning. Still, the hours seemed to stretch into eternity, and no amount of work or prowling could curb his restlessness. He expended some free time into trying to teach himself the elven script – which was going maddeningly slowly. Their runes were complicated and the language even more so. But it helped take his mind off of the worry about Shenlira and what their next encounter would look like. At night, he would enter a whole different dilemma. Nightmares had become fewer, but instead he woke from dreams of touching her, of feeling her warm skin on his, of finally tasting those inviting lips, finally giving in to a longing he'd felt since the day he'd watched her sing to the wild hart. It robbed him of breath with its intensity. He'd always believed himself to be a decent, honorable man. That notion turned doubtful quickly, for those images his subconscious tortured him with were anything but decent. They filled him with such an aching need that he'd throw aside the covers and pace his bedroom like a caged animal, trying to disperse the pulling tension in his loins. _Maker help me_ , he would think frantically. _If this goes on, very soon I am going to do something scandalous. Or spontaneously catch fire._

It was on one of these nights, about two weeks after Shenlira had left with her party, that Cullen walked the battlements with hope of cooling down a little. He felt a deep sigh escape him as he looked out into the pine forest with its spearhead-shaped crowns and the snow-swept mountains that rose from their midst. Little lights burned in the distance, far apart but strategically placed, marking watch camps that always kept a close eye on intruders. The night was a deep, velvet indigo, with a clear white moon like the face of a goddess in the skies.

"Something on your mind, Cullen?", a soft voice sounded behind him. He turned to watch Leliana's slender, hooded form move through the shadows to stand at the battlement wall beside him. "You have been pacing and sighing a lot, you know. This might help.", she commented before handing him a raven's note. Cullen ignored the teasing in her tone and unfolded the note, which bore Shenlira's hand, although the letters seemed as though written in great haste.

 _Leliana. Ambushed thrice in three days. Minor wounds on everyone, Cassandra took an arrow to the shoulder. Arriving with her late at night tomorrow, riding cross-country, leaving Dorian and Varric behind. Am faster on Nimhue through the woods. Ready the healers. Signed, Inquisitor Lavellan_

"The raven arrived late, I think, scouts report there's been a storm yesterday.", Leliana pointed out. They stood together for a time, awaiting some sign of movement throughout the silent woods that stretched out past Skyhold's walls. And surely enough, one of the scout camps sent up a flare not half a candlewick later.

"There! She's been spotted. Let's go." Cullen followed Leliana down the stairs through the inner courtyard, calling out to the soldiers to stand ready, while Leliana sent for a healer to be woken and prepared to remove an arrow. There weren't many people still awake, but a few gathered around the gate, expecting the entire party to arrive. What actually happened was entirely different. The great wild hart broke through a thicket of elderberry like a spectre in the dark, its hooves whirling the fresh powdery snow into a hazy fog. It was in a great rush as it came up the narrow bridge to the gate, trumpeting its urgency. Watch soldiers leapt aside from it. Cassandra was in the saddle, an arm holding her steady from behind. She seemed barely conscious. Shenlira sat behind her, guiding Nimhue with some difficulty since the beast was not used to two riders despite its size. They were received by Leliana and a healer in the courtyard. Two soldiers immediately came to help, with Cullen on their heels.

"Arrow to the shoulder. The head is still in there. I didn't dare to remove it in the field, these things can go terribly wrong, even with magic.", Shenlira was out of breath as she helped to hand Cassandra into the hands of the soldiers, who put her on a litter. The seeker had been stripped of her heavy armour but was wearing a fur-trimmed cloak over her undercoat. Cullen realized that the Inquisitor had used her cloak to wrap the injured woman, and now only had her own thin leather jerkin to protect against the cold. Cassandra groaned and huffed as she was lifted by the soldiers.

"She rode like a madwoman. A night and a whole day. It wasn't necessary! This is nothing, I can…", the seeker tried to rise, but fell back with a grunt of pain. Leliana threw Cullen a meaningful look before she joined the healer and the litter on its way to the infirmary. Nimhue danced once in a circle, still agitated, and the two soldiers who had tried to approach it so Shenlira could dismount backed away. Cullen took one step in her direction and held out his hand to the hart.

"Calm, girl. You know me, remember?", he made his voice deepen and saw with some satisfaction that Nimhue's ears flicked towards the sound, nostrils inhaling his scent. She even let him grab the reins and stood docilely when he inched closer.

"Are you alright, Inquisitor? Are you injured?", his tone carried a strained undercurrent of worry. The note didn't say she was wounded, but as he surveyed her now, she looked terrible. Her bright eyes were dull and unfocused. Dark shadows had made their home beneath the lids. If it was true, she'd ridden through a whole night and a day, something that took their toll even on hardened warriors. Pale almost to the point being transparent, Shenlira seemed ready to drop on the spot if she could, shoulders slumped, arms shivering in the cold.

"Cullen. I'm fine, just… Just tired.", she managed feebly, blinking as if to clear the fog from her vision. The exhaustion made it hard to think straight.

"Why don't you dismount, and then…", Cullen was baffled when she shook her head vigorously while he spoke. "What's wrong?" Shenlira eyed the soldiers who were standing ready to help put Nimhue to the stables and Cullen somehow wordlessly understood that she wanted them gone.

"I'll handle this, be on your way.", he dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Shenlira suddenly buckled over in the saddle and her face screwed up with pain, making him rush to her side.

"My leg… Can't move it-", she groaned, rubbing at the thigh with clammy hands, but it did nothing. Before she could slide sideways off the hart's back, Cullen reached for her. His hands simply encircled her waist and lifted her from the saddle like a doll. Her feet dangled in mid-air and she felt a blush creep to her numb face about being handled in such a cavalier way. Cullen didn't seem the least exerted by her weight, holding her a moment longer than necessary, perhaps. "What are you-" Shenlira stammered as he set her gently on the ground and held her steady with one arm around her midriff.

"Easy, Lira. It's a cramp. You need to relax the leg. I have you.", he spoke in a soft, soothing voice. The intimate use of her name sent a trickle of heat through her. Unconsciously, she leaned into his support. To her spent and shivery senses, he seemed to radiate warmth like a hearth. She wanted to wrap herself in his cloak and go to sleep surrounded by his scent.

"You were embarrassed that you couldn't dismount on your own in front of the soldiers.", Cullen noted while his free hand pressed against the rigid muscle in her thigh. His fingers moved over the cramping spot, relentless but not painful, and Shenlira felt it relax. She could only nod, afraid that if she spoke she'd burst into tears from exhaustion and the relief she felt at the easing pain. Cullen's breath came out as a sigh.

"This is because you push yourself too far. A whole night and day, and after you took mission after mission for weeks on end. It's too much. You need to rest, Lira." For the blink of an eye, the arm around her waist pulled her against him and she felt his face brush the top of her head. _Stay, stay, please…,_ she almost pleaded. Then he let her go, but it felt as though he didn't really want to. Rubbing her eyes with one hand, Shenlira looked up at him in the dim torchlight.

"Nimhue needs to be stabled, and I have to report to Leliana… Those ambushes were not normal.", she protested thinly, reaching for the reins. Cullen made a sound of exasperation deep in his throat and held the reins out of her reach, which she seemed to take as a warning. "Maybe I'll lie down for an hour or two. Don't growl, Sajnalin." This last came as a muttered whisper, but Cullen still heard it. Before she turned to stumble her way through the courtyard, Shenlira met his gaze. There was unveiled concern in his perceptive eyes, making her wonder just how terrible a sight she made then. Still, she managed to smile and it was _his_ smile, the tiny secret one that felt always reserved for him.

"Thank you, Cullen. It's good to be home.", she sounded half-asleep but glad, as though she'd finished a monumental task and now it was safe to let her mind shut down.

"Welcome home, Lira.", he said as he watched her retreating form climb the stairs to the keep like a sleepwalker, swaying intermittently as though drunk. He resolved to look in on her later, to make sure that she really slept and didn't start writing reports in the middle of the night. It was after all entirely possible with her.

* * *

Two hours later, Cullen had overseen Cassandra's arrowhead removal and heard the woman's report about strange ambushes they'd faced on the Coast. They always came out of the blue but seemed like half-hearted attacks, as if someone was throwing lives in front of their open swords just to gauge how they would react. Neither Leliana nor Cullen could make heads or tails of the accounts. After discussing precautions against further ambushes for some time, Cassandra leaned back onto the straw mattress and fussed with the white bandage that held her arm securely in place.

"Stop fidgeting, Sandra. Or the healer will have to do it all over again", Leliana warned her. The seeker gave a her a baleful look.

"Don't you have ravens to send, or some other spymaster thing to do?", came the scathing reply. Cullen cleared his throat.

"Maybe we should let the seeker rest for tonight.", he proposed, turning to leave, but Cassandra halted him.

"Cullen, a moment, please." Leliana left the two of them alone and Cullen had somewhat of an idea what would come next. "Have you talked to her yet? About the Lyrium?" The Seeker of Truth did not squander time on gilding lilies, he noted.

"No, not yet. She was deliriously tired when she arrived with you. I didn't think it was a good time.", he answered earnestly. Cassandra nodded, her face a strange mix of severity and… was it amusement?

"Oh, she panned me quite well about not telling her, and that she wasn't prepared for the situation. You should explain a few things to her. I hope you do not still hold that ridiculous notion that I should find a replacement for you.", the seeker eyed him suspiciously.

"I'm going to propose it to Shenlira as well.", Cullen wanted to add something, but he was interrupted by Cassandra's snort of derision.

"Somehow, I'd like to be there for that conversation and watch you crash and burn." He was left wondering what those words meant when Cassandra dismissed him shortly afterwards. The seeker had declined his request to find a replacement for him while he struggled with lyrium withdrawal, justifying the decision by saying that he was perfectly capable of command. But what if she was wrong? Cullen did not trust himself that the situation would not become worse, and he could not bear the thought of putting the Inquisitor's work in danger with recklessness. Should he be taking Lyrium? No. He feared that If he did, he would lose the last remnants of control he still claimed over his life. But then he would not be in pain and miserable and the abilities would help the Inquisition…

With this inner turmoil festering in his thoughts, he did not even notice that he was standing at the entrance to Shenlira's quarters. He wondered if some unconscious wish had moved his feet here, only so he could torment himself that he was not permitted to enter, by general rules of propriety. Almost he turned to leave, but then he heard noises. Fretful sounds were coming from the other side of the door, as though someone was struggling not to wail in despair. Several thumps in quick succession, then a high-pitched cry, both painful and terrified, that froze the blood in his veins. Cullen acted on pure instinct, pushing open the door and barging into the room without a second thought. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword firmly.

At the sight that greeted him, he let out a strangled noise and went perfectly still. Shenlira was on the floor next to the wide four-poster bed, scrambling to get to her feet. Her long legs were bare, except for the sleeveless undershirt that barely covered her upper thighs. The gift of speech abandoned him like the boon of a fickle god as he glimpsed the soft curves of her breasts, a more revealing look than he'd ever gotten before. Suddenly his body felt too tight to hold the rest of him together, while his bones somehow seemed to have turned into jelly. He managed to stammer an apology and something about having heard her scream.

"Cullen! No, wait –", she interrupted when he turned to leave. She came to her feet using the nightstand as a support, making his blank brain wonder what had happened here. "Just tripped on my way to get some water. You don't need to leave, just… give me a minute.", she amended, but he noted that her voice trembled and unconsciously knew that she was lying. The scream of terror he'd heard had sounded as though she'd woken from some terrible nightmare. Cullen turned respectfully to give her some privacy and heard her nearly silent footsteps circle the bed to a clothing stand on the other side. But he fought a losing battle with his sense of decency until it gave up, defeated, and let him take a peek. Chivalry only went so far.

The skin on those nimble legs that guided mounts with subtle muscle pressure was almost aglow with the dim light of the hearth fire, flawless and white like a dove's wing. But as his wayward eyes wandered up her straight spine, he caught a glimpse of an ugly burn mark just above the low collar of her shirt. It would not have been visible when she wore her usual clothes and now disappeared from sight as Shenlira flung a knee-long tunic around her shoulders. It was masterfully embroidered, the style unmistakably elven. He had the distinct feeling that he'd seen something she was very keen to hide, since she kept fidgeting with the collar until it covered most of her slender neck. Her back was still turned to him as she spoke.

"How are you feeling?" The question baffled him and he was momentarily side-tracked by the delicate movement of her hands as they tied a matching sash into a knot around her waist. The weave of her fingers fascinated him, flowing intricately as though she was playing a little tune on a lute. He found his voice again.

"I… Just headaches in the morning, but otherwise I'm fine. I wanted to apologize about my behaviour on that night. I… never planned for you to find out like this", he fumbled and thought he heard her let out a sigh at his words.

"I have the feeling that you didn't plan for me to find out at all. Cassandra told me that it's been months since you stopped taking Lyrium. I read that most templars who stop are in terrible pain for weeks. I didn't even notice…", her voice trailed away but Cullen noticed the subtle nuance in it. Annoyance? Disappointment?

"Forgive me… I was trying not to be a burden to your cause, and it worked out somehow until recently. Before I stopped, I asked Cassandra to watch me and act if I seemed unstable. I'm truly… mortified by how I acted that night and I realize that I might soon be unfit to be your Commander. But when I told Cassandra that she should look for a replacement for me, she declined. Maybe you could-", but he fell silent when Shenlira whirled around, an expression of outrage on her face. A deep frown marred her brow and her eyes threw out searing sparks.

"What?", she exclaimed, more sharply than he'd ever heard her speak to him. "How can you even suggest that after you have come so far? As if I would replace you, like you're disposable." Her anger made no sense to him until he realized that it wasn't about hiding his Lyrium withdrawal, but rather because he wanted to leave her service all of a sudden. Fierce joy reared up in him and he barely managed to quell the intense urge to close the distance between them.

"Please understand – I could be jeopardizing all that you have worked for if I start making mistakes…" Again, he was cut off when she shook her head in disbelief.

"Jeopardize it how? By showing a little weakness from time to time, by letting someone help you when you falter in the exceedingly difficult task you took on? You'd rather have me replace you than confide in me?" Shenlira paced the room restlessly and Cullen could see that he'd chosen a terrible moment to even begin this conversation with her. Besides the fact that she hadn't slept properly in three days, she seemed unusually agitated by something. Exhaustion and agitation had built a highly flammable haystack inside her that he'd somehow, foolishly set on fire. Now he had to live with the consequences.

"That's not what I-", he began.

"Why are you trying to talk me out of trusting you?!", her voice suddenly sounded hurt, as though he had dealt her some great insult. It made his heart twist inside his chest. _No, no, no, you have it all backwards…_

"Because you shouldn't! You shouldn't trust your entire force to a man who, on bad days, cannot tell reality from a nightmare and who could bring your whole hard work down with one wrong decision!", Cullen tried to defend himself. Shenlira faced him, her heart-shaped face taut with some strong emotion.

"You're right, but you are not that man. I trust a man who dedicates all his energy, his whole life to the task of helping me win this goddamned war. A man whose sense of duty and courage are like absolute things, indomitable things. So much so that he would face possible insanity and…" – here she faltered for a second before she continued –"…death to break free from the shackles of his old life." She rushed past him through the open balcony doors, then turned again, utter determination in her grey eyes.

"No, Sajnalin. You can't leave me now. I won't allow it.", she said, her tone one of command he'd rarely heard her use. But a moment later, the anger fell away from her face like the shedding of a mask and a look of abandonment replaced it. It made any reply he'd had ready die in his throat.

"You read my note. Do you remember what I wrote? With this line I'll mark my past…" He remembered, finishing it for her seamlessly.

"As a symbol of beginning." She was momentarily silent before letting out a deep sigh and rubbing a hand over her tired eyes.

"And do you know what that name symbolizes, Sajnalin?", she asked more quietly than before. Her shoulders had started trembling and he could see her small bare feet on the cold stone floor, the thin fabric of her robe offering no protection against the snowy chill of the night.

"Tenacity.", he answered softly. It seemed that her righteous ire had passed like a summer storm, leaving her open and vulnerable for all the strain that weighed on her to crash down in an avalanche. She nodded heavily, closing her eyes for a moment.

"Tenacity, Cullen. That is what you are. Leliana is my dagger in the dark, my cunning. Josephine is my quill that rights wrongs, my insight. You're my sword and shield, my tenacity. Without you, there is nothing between me and the darkness. We will see this through together. I will not hear you talk about leaving again.", she said this softly, but with a finality that left no room for discussion and he found he wanted none anyway. Regret and gratitude filled him in equal measure when he walked to her, opening the clasps of his cloak as he went. Regret because he had to put her through this arduous conversation at a time like this. Gratitude because her trust was an overwhelming, barely graspable thing to him. Shenlira startled when the heavy fur-and-feather lining was wrapped around her shoulders and a wave of his scent hit her senses. The hem covered even her feet, her willowy frame almost disappearing inside the fur collar.

"Your confidence in me borders on the insane.", Cullen spoke her own words back to her and it was hard to tell whether she wanted to laugh or cry when she heard them. It had terrified her when he had talked about leaving, especially since by now she was not sure that she could bear it all without him. Their argument had pushed her off the edge that she'd been treading for too long, with the nightmares and the pressure and the fear of failing those who counted on her. She felt drained of all energy and when the soft fur tickled her face, she inhaled the sandalwood and pine that drifted to her nose. It relaxed her, melting away her guard and resolve until her eyelids fluttered with sleepiness. A small, still conscious part of her mind noted that he stood close enough so she could feel the warmth coming from his body, so inviting. _Lean on me_ , it seemed to whisper with an inescapable allure _. I will hold you safe and sound_.

"I won't leave, Lira. You have my word.", he reaffirmed quietly. Too exhausted to have any reservations, Shenlira leaned against his chest and encountered not the resistance of cold steel. Only soft fabric that was saturated with the irresistible scent of his skin, and she felt the breath catch deep in his throat when she pressed her face to the place where his heart beat like a never-ceasing drum. A strong arm wrapped around her immediately and even though she was already halfway into sleep, she noticed the steady thud beneath her ear quicken.

"Good.", she muttered, unable to suppress a yawn. "Because… I'm not giving this back. It smells so good." Cullen doubted that she was aware of what she did or said at that moment. Exhaustion had claimed her and she'd journeyed beyond consciousness. Regardless, the sudden feel of her body against his sent his senses into a wild tumble. Heart racing, he struggled for a measure of control against the urge to claim her mouth with his, to bury his hands in her hair, to hold her close and never ever let her go. How he managed to restrain that impulse, he would later not know. The slow easing of the tension in her muscles and the change in her breathing told him she was about to fall asleep like this, while standing.

Cullen took a deep breath and his free arm hooked around the bend of her knees as gently as possible, lifting her from the ground into his arms. The weight meant nothing. It was like holding a slightly heavy blanket. A warm, soft, lilac-fragrant blanket. Flame-kissed hair tickled over his cheek and chin as he stepped back into the quarters. Shenlira did not even stir, instead she gave a content sigh and burrowed further into his warmth, sending a jolt of arousal through him. _Maker give me strength_ , he prayed. It had been years since he'd been this close to a woman, and this wasn't just any woman, but the one he sensed he was irrevocably falling for. Her nearness made him keenly aware of every breath he took, every sensation felt magnified, every nerve felt alive with a burning spark he had no name for.

He carried Shenlira to the bed and relinquished her sleeping body to the scrambled blankets, very mindful not to disturb her. Pulling his cloak around her closely, he kneeled at the side of the bed and took a long, undisturbed moment to study the face that he'd come to cherish so strongly in such a short time. The golden firelight lent a soft glow to her pale features, which were now empty of all tension and stress, peacefully calm in slumber. But the shadows were still there beneath her eyes. Eyes that had looked at him with anger and sadness, with dignified command and grudging respect, but mostly with warmth and concern. A small nick appeared between her brows and her lids fluttered from a dream. Cullen's hand reached out on its own to pick up a stray strand of her dark red hair. It slid through his fingers like silk as he brushed it to join the wild mane that framed her face.

And then she suddenly smiled in her sleep, that unique little quirk both shy and tempting, and he couldn't stop himself. He leaned over her, closing the distance between them as he finally, finally let his lips brush over hers. Her tiny sigh was lost in the feather-light kiss that felt unavoidable, a necessity – and for a moment Cullen stopped thinking altogether, savouring the touch. The taste of spiced wine she'd drunk sometime in the evening went to his head like some intoxicating drug and the softness of her lips was more than his imagination had ever dreamed up. He lingered, trying to capture that elusive essence of her, to imprint it onto his mind so it could not be forgotten.

It was a stolen kiss, a thing taken without her explicit permission, and he was very aware that he had to stop before he woke her. But when Shenlira's lips parted and a small, silken tongue brushed against his, he honestly thought he'd lose it. For a moment, it felt like being suspended at the edge of a cliff, the sensation in his stomach the one that came during a free fall, and if he let it happen, he would never stop. _Pull back, pull back. You have taken enough for now_ , reason warned. The willpower it took to heed it would have moved ten horse-carts. Briefly he stayed, just resting his brow against hers and listening to her even breaths. Shenlira had not woken, but judging by her reaction, the dream she was having right now was no nightmare.

"I could have never left you anyway. I don't want to leave you right now. Not ever.", his whisper was almost soundless, a soft appeal.

Somehow, Cullen found the resolve to stand and feed the fire, before he went and gathered all scattered reports he could find. As she had done two weeks before, he wrote a note that he left openly on her desk before he exited her quarters. An inexplicable feeling of loneliness came over him as soon as he'd stepped into the abandoned corridor, as if a great part of him had gone missing all of a sudden, and with it came a crippling terror that despite all the influence he wielded, despite being her sword and shield, her unwavering tenacity, he would be powerless to protect her when the time came. Yet, like so many people who feared the truth of their heart, he was not quite ready to admit the simple fact: Only the things which we love most deeply are we the most terrified to lose.


	5. V My Heart Open Wide

_So, things are proceeding quite nicely. First thank you for your favs and reviews, they sustaaaain me 3. This chapter is one of my favourite ones and I took the time to edit it for uploading today before work. Behind the scenes, I'm actually nearing the end of the main story, but since most of the chapters need serious editing, I work through them one at a time (I'm at 120k words right now and fairly close to the end, so stay tuned!). This is the point where things start to get interesting, and as you see it's quite the long chapter. The 'Poem' Cullen recites here is actually an excerpt from a songtext of the song Solitary by VNV Nation. There is a beautiful version of that song performed in cooperation with the Babelsberg Orchestra, and the whole lyrics remind me so much of the templars and their struggle, and Cullen's in particular. I also started adding little intros to the chapters that have some significance/hints to the story or are simply interesting flavor texts, so you may want to quickly look into that for the chapters you have already read. :) _

* * *

**V. My Heart Open Wide**

 _Her step is soundless still, but inside she sings a song that makes the trees dance. Listen and you'll hear it, scarlet and golden and draped around you to protect, the tapestry so fondly woven. Just a smile is all she wants.  
Cole_

* * *

"She's still resisting." The voice that spoke from the Fade was distorted, a sinister and guttural sound that would have made brave men cower in fear. But the figure on the throne did not seem unsettled, instead the emotion he wore on his misshapen face was scorn. Plates of red lyrium were fused to his sickly brown skin as though a part of him, his eyes gleamed scarlet like windows to a dimension of malice and madness. The throne on which Corypheus sat was inlaid with big chunks of the dangerous mineral that could turn mages rabid and corrupt templars into mindless abominations. It gave off an unearthly glow, singing its eerie song that hungered to consume the world. A pulsing green tear floated above the darkspawn magister like some otherworldly cloud. It was to this cloud, this rift to another world, that he spoke with a snort of disdain.

"How is that possible? You have been throwing nightmare after nightmare at her, battering her with despair. How can she still resist?!", Corypheus' anger was imminent, but the presence on the other side of the veil answered with equal fervour.

"Do not speak to me like to your bound demon lackeys, human. For you still are nothing more than a creature whose grasp is burdened by the restriction of the flesh. I am not your slave and you would do well to remember that. Your mind can barely comprehend what I do." There was a short pause. "Something sustains her. Unconsciously, she hides whatever gives her strength from me, guards it jealously like some petty trinket. She does not have enough magical blood in her for me to take over as I would do with a mage."

"Her mother was a mage. It's not enough to make her vulnerable?", Corypheus pondered, unfazed by the threats.

"Her mother might have been a mage, but she is not. As long as she keeps up her guard, I can't get in. And I do so very much long to get in. All that delicious fear, so close to the surface. Make it happen, I don't care how, and we will have our deal, Magister.", the demonic voice faded with a laugh that would have frozen blood, taking the fade rift with it and leaving Corypheus alone to ponder his next move. This whole sinister plan was strarting to prove more trouble than expected. It had been proposed to him by another, and he grew tired of the constant failure. Only natural that his scheming little servant got their hands dirty in the process. After an endless moment, the Magister called for a messenger, who came running immediately.

He commanded an urgent missive to be sent, and as the man scribbled frantically onto the parchment, the darkspawn magister delighted in the thought that surely, the incentives in that missive would be enough to motivate his faithful one further. Maybe, finally, the greatest obstacle that stood between him and the Maker's throne would be taken out of his way. And he himself wouldn't have lifted one finger to bring it about.

* * *

For the first time in ages, Shenlira slept through the night and woke with a feeling of complete restfulness. The remnants of a dream lurked at the corners of her mind, a dream so blissful and pleasant that she tried for several minutes to chase the intangible thing down, but it refused to be caught. A feathery kiss on her lips, strong arms holding the world outside at bay for her. Her face touched soft fur and she remembered falling asleep leaned against Cullen. He must have carried her to bed and had wrapped her in his cloak. The gesture made her want to grin uncontrollably, but instead she pressed her cheek into the collar and inhaled, smiling as though she was a young girl without a care in the world. Maybe for a short moment, she was. To her infinite frustration, reality creeped up to quickly. A knock on the door startled her and made her wonder how long she had slept. The sun was bright through the wide windows of the balcony doors and it stood much higher than usually when she woke. Shenlira cleared her throat.

"What is it?", she called, still hoarse from sleep. Josephine's voice came from the other side of her door.

"Inquisitor, I hope you are well rested? Now that you are back and Cassandra will have to recuperate, please let me remind you that I will counsel you on court etiquette until our visit to the Winter Palace is due." Oh curses, she'd completely forgotten about the etiquette lessons. The thought of being thrown into a pit of nobles who will gladly pick her apart as wolves dismantled a deer carcass made her want to crawl right back into bed. Or into that cloak that beckoned her with its enticing smell. But she knew it was inevitable. More than once her companions had called her a wild spirit and she had never disputed it overly much. Because, quite frankly, it was true. The great wide open called to her like a constant song that never ceased for breath. In the chaos and responsibility that had come to take over her life, nature and the freedom to roam was as important as a dear friend. Yet, she thought ruefully, freedom entwined with solitude out there, making them inseperable as twins. All forests in the world would not help her win the war, and Shenlira had no illusions about her non-existent court manners.

"I will be there at noon, Josie.", she answered heavily.

"But it is noon.", came the answer, and it sounded distinctly amused.

"What?!", Shenlira cried in alarm. "Then… give me two hours." She shot up from the bed and carefully folded Cullen's cloak. It didn't seem possible that she had slept for so long. The thought shocked her. After she had bathed and gotten dressed in an informal robe with matching breeches, she went to her desk to finish the report she'd started in her delirium last night. But it wasn't where she'd left it. For that matter, none of the reports that usually scattered her quarters were anywhere to be found. Instead, a folded note stared right at her from the middle of the workplace. The writing was Cullen's. With a faint sense of deja-vu, she picked it up.

 _Lira,_

 _I hope that you were able to have a good night's rest. It worries me how exhausted you have been lately, and don't think I don't notice. Since you listen to no voice of reason, I have taken the liberty to confiscate all of your reports and plan to keep them at an undisclosed location until further notice. I am willing to bargain if you bring me my cloak. It's cold in these mountains, you know._

 _Keenly awaiting Your visit (and the wrath that is sure to follow),  
Cullen_

The nerve of him! She could not hold back a laugh and the smile lingered on her features as she folded the note into her pocket.

* * *

Cullen was seated at his desk when she entered his tower room, a recruit standing in front of him. It was immediately clear that the young man couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen winters old, terrified of the Commander.

"Marten, if I catch you sneaking off after you have your friends cover your watch one more time, I'm going to kick your sorry behind from here to Denerim, right back to your father's doorstep. Do you hear me?", the recruit literally shook in his boots under the harsh rebuke, but managed a nod.

"This is not some adventurous band of mercenaries for you to play hero at. This is the Inquisition and we are in the middle of a war. If you do not take this seriously, you are gone. Did I make myself clear?" There was a mutter in answer to his words. "What was that?", Cullen snapped. Shenlira had seen him exercise the troops with taciturn discipline, but hearing him put someone in their place like that had a very different effect. She remembered his anger at the archery course, which had been an unbound temper. What he did now was a clever, calculated use of his position of respect in a very, very strict manner. She hoped never to be on the receiving end of that tone.

"Yes, Sir.", the recruit spoke up. He seemed infinitely relieved when Cullen let him go with a reminder that he'd be on watch for the next four nights and passed Shenlira without a glance, his eyes firmly fixed on his boots.

"Poor boy. He will probably be constipated for a week.", she announced her presence and felt a jolt of giddiness when Cullen's face lost all austerity. Polite man that he was, he stood and bowed to her with a slight smile.

"Good morrow – or should I say noon?", his tone sounded almost playful but she did not take the bait, only narrowed her eyes in warning to him. Still, she felt her face grow warm with a blush and cursed mentally. "…and he deserves the constipation for playing hooky on his watch. I suspect there is a girl involved…", Cullen elaborated.

"Ah, that explains much. There is always a girl involved when young men sneak off their duties.", Shenlira said in a wistful voice that seemed to fluster Cullen. She watched the man who made soldiers straighten by his mere presence fumble for words.

"What? I – It wasn't like that when I was young…", he finally said and he could make no sense of the amusement that danced in Shenlira's eyes. But he delighted in seeing her well rested and in good spirits. Something was different… An aura of secret happiness seemed to cloak her as she surveyed him, an enigmatic smile lingering on her lips. It reminded him of the kiss he'd stolen from her last night and for a moment, he couldn't form a coherent thought.

"Yes, I can imagine that it wasn't.", she agreed, tilting her head to one side like a curious bird.

"Templar rules were very strict about curfew. We wouldn't even have been allowed to…", Cullen stopped when he saw her hide some unseen expression behind her hand. The grey in her eyes glinted like silver. "…and you are jesting with me, Lira.", he suddenly realized. He could not fathom her mood. Was she actually flirting with him?

"I'm sorry, Sajnalin. Maybe I was, just a little.", she apologized honestly.

"No, I li- I mean it's fine. This is the reason why everyone goes rigid like a statue when I am close. I have no measurable sense of humour, or at least that's what my siblings always told me. They say I was born severe." The remark had not been meant as a complaint and he felt a sense of loss when the smile faded from Shenlira's face and was replaced by a serious expression.

"You have led a life of grave sacrifices and discipline. Nobody would emerge as a jester from that.", she defended him, then lost her train of thought when he stepped around his desk and within arm's reach of her.

"Once you told me that I intimidate people. Do I intimidate you, Lira?", his deep voice was rich with some keen sentiment and when she looked up into his eyes, she saw something burn behind the careful control he always kept: Yearning. It made her mouth go dry with its intensity.

"No – I…", she cleared her throat once, before saying more surely, "No. You have a… staggering presence, but not intimidating." This earned her a genuine smile from Cullen. She blinked as if she'd looked into a very bright light.

"Good, I'm glad. At least one person who does not act like a nervous wreck around me.", his tone was the closest to joking that she'd heard him get, but he couldn't have been more wrong. When he smiled like that, she did become a nervous wreck. For some reason she could not explain, she felt as though they were standing at a precipice together, both preparing to take a jump into waters they knew nothing about. Neither the temperature, nor the depth, nor if they would sink or swim. There was hesitation on both sides, the one that came naturally with such a thing, and yet she had absolute certainty that she would take the leap. She always did.

They spent the better part of noon simply talking. Cullen told her about his family, what it felt like when siblings were so boisterous and overbearing that one longed for blissful silence, and in turn he learned about the early death of her mother, and how she'd been raised by a lone father who put all his grieving energy into making an Alaslin out of her. On top of being an only child, the Alaslin training was a solitary thing. Quiet hunts and rides in the wilderness, a quiet home with a father who hadn't talked much even before her mother had died. So different to his early years, which had been anything but quiet, with two sisters and a brother constantly underfoot.

Shenlira was surprised to hear that he'd wanted to become a templar since he was eight years old. Even as a child, he'd had such a strong sense of justice and duty. She listened with great interest to his stories about templar training and daily life – and understood a little better how much resolve it must have taken to even finish the first few years. It filled her with great pride and respect for him, but also a strange kind of sadness that seldom in his life had anything truly been his own. When she recounted the task she had been given as her rite of passage, his face went slack.

It had been during the winter she'd turned eighteen, a terribly cold one where the snows fell several feet high and many passages were blocked. Those kinds of winters were rare in the riverlands where she grew up. The old Alaslin had given her five arrows that needed to last for ten days, and sent her into the Withering Cliffs, a complicated maze of rock formations that harboured a dangerous wolf pack. She was to bring back a wolf pup, but not just any one. The son of an alpha. Cullen listened with rapt attention how she'd faced the danger of starvation and exposure out in the unrelenting cold, built snares and shot rabbits through the eye to preserve as much meat as possible. She almost did not escape the pack when they went into angry pursuit after she'd taken the cub. Only one arrow remained when she was cornered on a narrow ledge, cub in her arm, huddled against a scraggly, gnarled tree, the alpha snarling and spitting savagely a few feet below, just barely out of reach.

"I honestly thought I would die there. Either from the cold or the alpha would finally take a great lunge and reach me. Cub whined all through the night.", she reminisced. Cullen shook his head incredulously.

"How did you escape?", he wondered. It seemed hopeless.

"When the morning came, the heavy snow stopped and the fog faded. I saw what I had not seen before, another ledge on the far side of the crag, and a windswept birch atop it. I don't think I ever aimed a bow this carefully. You see, the arrow needed to hit through a branch so the head would act like a grappling hook. I bound the last piece of rope I had to the fletching and then… sometime in the afternoon I found the courage to take the shot.", she went on, sounding as though she didn't believe she had truly done such a thing. _Such daring…_

"Truthfully, I don't remember how I crossed over. Cub was swaddled in my jerkin, and the angry snarls and snapping jaws below my feet were like the most terrifying thing I had ever heard. I just kept thinking, one more push. One more foot length of rope."

"I can't believe the nerve of you, woman. Your arrow could have come loose, or your strength could have faltered, or the rope simply snapped.", Cullen's face paled at the thought that he might have never met her if she had perished in that extremely harsh task. Simultaneously, he admired her valour and grit.

"Yes, all of those things could have happened. And yet, by some stroke of fate neither did. I survived and returned with the cub.", she sounded wistful and her gaze seemed focused on something distant, a look he'd glimpsed before. A deep homesickness dwelled within her, not for a place, but a life that had been all she'd known for so long, and that she had given up to become the Inquisitor. After the quiet, open forests and such a solitary existence, being around people who had nothing but demands and expectations and scrutiny for her, all the time – what a toll that must take on her, he wondered?

"What happened to the cub?", Cullen asked quietly, relieved when a smile came to her face at the question.

"Cub? I raised him, of course. He became my best friend and partner in crime for almost a decade. But I left him with the clan when I went to the Conclave. He's not the youngest anymore… Besides, he wouldn't like it here. Too many dogs.", she said with playful disdain.

"That's what you named him? Cub?" His amusement startled her.

"If you take one look at him, you would know he is Cub.", Shenlira noted in an attempt at dignity.

"I'd like that." Cullen looked at her for a timeless moment. Silence fell between them, the first notable one since they started their conversation. They had sat down at the small corner table in his tower and the shaft of sunlight that had been on his side of the table when they'd done so had now moved to hers.

"I miss him." This simple confession sounded so forlorn that his hand reached for hers without even thinking about what he did. His gloved fingers wrapped around her small, bare ones. She didn't pull away. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she let out a deep sigh, let the small touch infuse her with comfort, and felt some restless part of her turn silent and calm. The strange hesitation from the beginning of their conversation had faded away. Instead, she sensed something reaching out from beyond the precipice. Something infinitely fragile and at the same time unruinable, untarnished by time or distance. Cullen did not speak, but the subtle pressure she returned to his fingers told him that this was a time where his words weren't needed. Just his presence.

Shenlira knew that this brief, enjoyable reprieve inevitably drew to a close and she had to leave soon for her etiquette lesson with Josephine. But she still had one important thing to tell him. Her eyes remained closed for a moment longer before she spoke.

"I'm sorry… About my… outbreak yesterday. I was exhausted and before…", her words trailed away, but he finished them for her.

"Before, you woke from a nightmare." When she met his gaze, she instantly knew that she had never even fooled him in the first place. He seemed to have interpreted the signs but had refrained from breaching the subject to her. Letting go of her hand, he stood and walked to his desk, where he touched the Lyrium box, a frown on his noble brow.

"One of the consequences of my decision to stop taking Lyrium. I relive all the horrors I have seen over again, in vivid detail." Shenlira followed him and he surveyed her stricken profile for a time. "I'm familiar with the feeling. You don't need to apologize. You can always tell me what you saw, in your nightmare. It might help." She threw him a quick glance before averting her eyes again.

"I see what happens if I fail.", her tone held a subtle edge that warned him not to press the issue. _Not yet. Tread lightly_. She had already confided so much in him, but each for each of those things she had needed her own time and this was no different. Instead, he chose to tell her something he had never told anyone before.

"The Circle where I was first stationed as a templar was overtaken by abominations. I was tortured… They tried to break my mind. I – I don't know how much of me survived. Afterwards, there was only anger in me for such a long time. I became a radical – mages needed to be confined or they would destroy us. How wrong I've been! My next commander went insane from red lyrium and was one of the people responsible for the uprising that started this whole conflict." He felt the sorrow in Shenlira's gaze as if it were a physical thing that stood and drew breath with them in this room, but he needed her to know how he'd come to this point in his life. "Mages or templars, blood is on all of their hands. Whatever noble causes have led us before, they have ceased to exist long before this war started. You might be right, when you say that the great tragedies that befell the templar will bring change. But I believe that for me, there is no saving them. I wish I could explain it better…", he fell silent for a long moment before he continued. "Even if the templars changed, there would be no peace for me in returning to that life. I have come too far. I'd like to know what it feels like to be free, someday. And maybe understand what kind of man I have become."

Shenlira was so moved by his words and what it had taken him to entrust her with this that she had to swallow a thick knot which had formed in her throat. She wanted so desperately to comfort him, to communicate to him that she liked – the word felt too small, too inconsequential though – the man he was now. But the matter felt so convoluted, heavy that she knew words alone would not bring her message across. _You are terrible at profound declarations, don't doubt it_ , her conscience piped. Then, out of nowhere, an idea came to her. _To be free…_ He yearned to know what that would be like. At least with that, she could help.

"Would you like to destroy it?", she suddenly asked him, bringing a surprised expression to his face. "It would be an actual symbol, like in the poem. And I know a place." Cullen surveyed her in deep thought for a moment.

"Yes, I'd like that." They both startled when Josephine's voice came from the courtyard, calling Shenlira's name. Her face took on a look of frustration and he felt the dire heaviness of their conversation ease from him, like setting down some great weight. How did she manage to put him at ease, just like that?

"Ah, someone is looking for you. Etiquette lessons, I heard her mention that. It's good that I have a meeting due with my captains, because otherwise she would have dragged me into it. I don't envy you." She was glad to see that the light had returned to his eyes and found that he even seemed calmer, more peaceful than before.

"Traitor.", this with mock disdain. "I really have to leave, don't I?", she went on, sounding regretful. "But… I'd like to show you something, Sajnalin. Meet me at the stables at late afternoon, when dinner is being served at the barracks. Bring that box."

Shenlira bowed and went to the door, her steps infused with a barely contained bounce, as though she'd figured out some complicated riddle. Before she left, she turned to face him once more, her eyes roaming over his tall figure in a way that made him intensely curious what she might be thinking.

"Oh, and… Don't wear that heavy thing. Otherwise you won't be able to keep up." She was gone without further notice.

"At least bring my cloak!", he called after her, receiving no answer except for a ringing, female laughter that reached him like a melody on the wind. It left him wondering if he'd ever predict what to expect from such a woman. He'd thought he'd known her pretty well by now and still she managed to surprise him, that elusive mind filled with yet more secrets to uncover.

* * *

"I get the feeling that you would rather be literally anywhere else than here.", Josephine chided her after an hour of intense counselling in which she had barely explained the most important rules of courtesy and appearance at court. Shenlira wondered how nobles ever did anything, considering how much time they spent with beating around the bush and actually doing nothing. Even a simple greeting was an elaborately tedious thing. One could not bow too low to someone with insignificant rank or it would look sarcastic. When bowing to certain titles, one had to sweep the arm and tilt the body more backwards. But if it was a married woman or widow, the bow needed to be forward with a tilt of the head. If there were already so many ways to just greet someone and introduce yourself, then how many trapdoors would open up during a simple conversation? And that didn't even regard the fact that she had to talk to the most powerful people of the country, and those would certainly be no simple chats.

"I know you hate this. I can see it in your eyes. But it is paramount that we stop this plot against Celene and choose our alliances among the nobles. Without their support, we will be vulnerable and without a proper leader, Orlais will fall prey to Corypheus.", Josephine gave her a severe look.

"I know that, Josie. But I have never been at court, never even strayed close to it. For me, this is like being thrown to a pack of wolves. This Game you describe to me sounds like one wrong word could bring it all down. The pressure of it is staggering.", she rubbed her brow and picked up one of the wooden clipboards that Josephine had laid out on the desk. Her diplomacy advisor had meticulous notes on everyone who was anyone at court, sometimes even with portraits attached to the description. She'd ferreted out information on their rank and influence, mannerisms and personality, even how they liked to spend leisure time.

"These people… They never say what they actually mean. They elude and quibble and everything has some hidden meaning.", she frowned at the severe face of Duke Gaspard on the parchment.

"That is why you have me. I will prepare you as best as I can, I won't throw you to the wolves without arming you to the teeth, Shenlira. And besides, word has it that you can be pretty good at diverting and evading straight answers.", Josephine noted with a little amusement.

"That's different! I… Yes, I admit I sometimes like to elude prying. But I'm not deceptive, some things are just… private." She had trouble properly explaining herself.

"Indeed. Sadly, in your position very little of you is 'just private', as you are probably the most public figure there is right now." That thought made Shenlira queasy. "But evasion is good. We will start there, and build on that." And Josephine proceeded to counsel her by staging different imaginary conversations where she took on the role of questioning nobles. Several times during this roleplay, she would interrupt and criticize or demonstrate a more correct approach. Never be too blunt about your true intent, always look for an opening to latch on to. But be polite, yet not too much or you'll sound sarcastic. Do not voice any opinion without veiling it in double-meanings. Smile, but never too widely, it would be insulting. They did this until Shenlira's head swam with such encapsulated thoughts and phrases that she thought her very brain had knots in it she would never untangle again. Finally, after what felt like hours, Josephine took pity on her and concluded this first of many tortures. But not without handing her a stack of the profile notes with a look that said she should read them very carefully.

"Oh, and I took the liberty of requisitioning a proper dress for you for the ball. It should arrive in time, just too bad not soon enough so you can wear it to your dancing lesson tomorrow.", Josephine said this casually, but there was an unmistakable teasing ring to her voice.

"Dance lesson? I can dance!", Shenlira bristled.

"So I have heard, with harts and wolves and what not. But this will be a ballroom and the dances in those are a little different. You will most likely be asked to dance and under the scrutiny of the whole court, there may be dances you simply can't afford to decline.", the other woman explained, sounding exasperated. Shenlira wanted to note that she did not dance with wolves, because they much preferred howling songs, but such a comment would not argue her point well.

"Why do you torture me so?", she lamented instead, although it was only half-serious.

"You people are impossible. Cullen said the exact same thing. Why are you being so difficult?", Josephine had picked up her quill and acted as if all of this was immensely vexing, but Shenlira had a distinct sense that the advisor led her on a merry chase. To the question why she would be teaching Cullen to dance too, the other woman gave a suspicious smirk.

"Because just like you, he will be subjected to public enquiry and needs to be able to conduct himself properly. I am sure a man like him will have more than a few noble ladies request a dance. It's something about the hair, I think… So unless you want to lose face in front of the competition…" The words deliberately were left open for her imagination to fill the blanks. Damn her, she had succeeded in reminding Shenlira of the rapt female attention Cullen had gotten during the archery-sparring-exercise and she could barely hold back the possessive, low sound that built in her throat. What was wrong with her?! The rush of jealousy was completely unfamiliar and she hadn't thought herself prone to such emotions. But then again, she had never felt like this for anyone before. It was maddening. And exhilarating.

"Are you taunting me, Montilyet?", she demanded with a drawl. Instead of an answer, Josephine used the very tactic on her that had been a topic of their lesson: She answered the question with another question.

"Is it working?", this with unveiled curiosity.

Shenlira made a sound of utter irritation and turned on her heels, leaving with the nagging impression that she'd been very cleverly baited.

* * *

The afternoon sun was already sinking towards the snowy mountain tops when Cullen made his way to the stables. Nobody came to greet him or offer to saddle his horse, not even a stable boy – quite unusual. Someone was always around, but it seemed that at this particular time of day most of the keepfolk allowed themselves a brief reprieve and enjoyed a warm meal. Cullen normally either ate alone in his tower or joined the captains in the barracks. Even the mounts were in the middle of their dinner when he entered, their long noses buried in grain sacks. Shenlira stood at the gate-side exit, flanked by two saddled horses. One of them was his black stallion, a strong and solid creature that had carried him safely through battle many times. Now the traitor enjoyed a thorough brow-stroking while he bit off a carrot like he hadn't a care in the world. The other horse was a blue roan, smaller and less bulky than a battle mount, with slender black legs and mane, its coat shimmering like silver. Most likely a hunting mount, not built for strength and force, but rather agility and speed. His stallion noticed his scent and nickered, announcing his presence to Shenlira, who looked up and smirked mischievously.

"This one is a real solemn entity. But when I rub this patch on his brow he's like a foal again.", she made a demonstration and he watched his horse bump her shoulder with its nose. "Does he have a name?"

"Black?", Cullen ventured, amused by the indignant expression that came to her face.

"And this from the man who called me out on naming my wolf 'Cub'." She introduced him to her own horse and he wondered why she hadn't chosen to ride Nimhue, but before he could ask her, Shenlira held out a neatly folded bundle to him. It was his cloak.

"Thank you. I hope it kept you warm." Cullen noticed her blush and he suspected that she was embarrassed about what had happened last night. While he fastened his cloak, Shenlira muttered something about her being the one to thank him and cleared her throat.

"Did you bring the box?", she asked after fumbling with the reins for a while. He nodded and showed her the cursed thing. "Put it on 'Black', please." Only now did he realize that Shenlira was wearing outdoor clothes and what the saddling of two horses meant. Her yew bow Heartwood was fastened behind her saddle atop a frayed quiver and a large sack with undefinable content.

"You plan to sneak out on your own while everyone is having dinner? It's dangerous, Lira. There could be attackers in the woods – wait, you have done this before. Bull said…" He recalled the Bull mentioning that she sneaked off once a week but how nobody knew where she went. Cullen didn't like that thought that she roamed the woods without any protection and yet he was intensely curious what on earth she could be up to. The look she gave him was so disappointed that he felt guilty for rebuking her.

"I don't plan to do anything _on my own_. You are coming with me. It's not far, we won't even leave the perimeter of the outer watch posts. And we are both armed. You are more than capable to protect me.", her words almost tripped over themselves as she argued her point. Then, suddenly a pleading tone entered her voice.

"We will be back by nightfall, I promise. Please, Cullen. You won't regret it." Where did his steadiness and discipline go when he was with this woman? Out a high tower window, he reckoned. This excursion seemed immensely important to her and he couldn't find it in his heart to refuse her wish. Especially not when she pined away at him like a wounded deer with a stomach-ache, curse her. He suspected that this weakness would be his downfall, but there was just no helping it.

"Alright, just… Stop looking at me like that. And let me at least tell the watch soldiers to alert Leliana if we're not back by nightfall.", he heaved a defeated sigh but was momentarily stunned by the joy that lit up her face as though he'd given her some treasure of infinite value. She took the box from his hands and began fastening it to Black's saddle while he went to have a discreet word with the sentries. The two men at the gate made no effort to hide their bewilderment when Cullen told them he, the Commander was riding out with the Inquisitor, alone. One of them even had the nerve to smirk, although he tried to cover it with a cough. Cullen groaned inwardly and half-wished they actually had sneaked out, because even if he warned them to be discreet, half the keep would know about it by tomorrow. Soldiers were worse gossips than old hags, especially about their superiors. It was like some additional form of sustenance to them.

He snapped that they should be vigilant and stop goggling at him like idiots before he took the reins from Shenlira and mounted Black with one fluid motion. The horse cantered sideways, surprised about the missing weight of a harness and an armored, heavy-shielded rider. Ignoring Shenlira's suppressed laugh and the whisper between the two gatekeepers, he coaxed Black into a trot.

Not much later, they had left the great bridge behind and traversed the pass that lead up to Skyhold, a road fenced by tall firs and golden birch trees. Thick elderberry bushes grew beneath them, often hiding treacherously sharp stones that could trip riders who were unfamiliar with the terrain. Shenlira had braced those dangers on Nimhue when she'd brought Cassandra back, for she knew the hidden pathways lone riders or scouts would take when they wanted to be especially fast. Behind them, the keep stood sentinel cradled between two mountainsides, which had protected and preserved it over centuries. Only half an hour of riding down the mountain pass, the downward slope eased and evened out, making way for a larger and denser forest to grow. Snow still covered much of the land, but here and there patches of ever-dormant autumn foliage were visible on the forest floor. One could even come across yellowed bushels of highland grass peeking from the white blanket like tufts of hair. The late afternoon sun blinked through the golden leaves above, making ice crystals twinkle. Light and shadow danced across the undergrowth in merry patterns, dappling the coat of Shenlira's roan as if it were a piebald horse. The rays skipped across her open hair and it glinted in a molten copper tone, a shade of red so pristine he couldn't take his eyes off of it. The air carried the faintest promise of spring and Cullen unconsciously took a deep breath. He failed to remember when he'd last stopped and appreciated the beauty that of this land or just enjoyed the sun's warmth on his face, carefree, even if only for a moment. Shenlira rode beside him in silence and he sensed that she deliberately did not burden their ride with conversation or explanations. She just let him be, for a while _. Is this what freedom feels like?_ A small, fleeting bliss, compared to the heavy weights they both carried, and yet such a strong emotion came over him that he felt constricted inside, as if he might overflow if he did not set it free. It eluded definition or full understanding. An unmeasurable time passed before he noticed Shenlira looking at him from the corner of her eye, wearing his favourite smile. His heart gave a little lurch at the sight of it.

"I never said anything about sneaking, you know. It's just easier to have a little quiet time for myself if I leave when most people are busy elsewhere. Otherwise I get delayed by this and that…" She turned her gaze to the road. Some distance ahead, Cullen could make out a bright opening in the trees.

"I'm glad that you didn't let me talk you out of this. It's really… peaceful. It might have been wiser to sneak, though, to avoid the incredulous looks of my soldiers…", he said without considering that the comment might sound very suggestive and lead the conversation into a direction that made her uncomfortable. After all, she was a very private person, hard to read on the best of days. Cullen watched as she pondered his words for a moment, noticing that she looked different out in the wilds than she did at the keep. Her seat in the saddle was relaxed, her shoulders much less set, and she rode her light-footed roan with an airy leisure, humming softly. No strain or worry clouded her and he realized that she needed these rides to keep her sanity in the chaotic and demanding life she lived. Other people carved wood or picked fights to let go of their worries, Shenlira did this. _Little enough to sustain her_ , he thought regretfully.

"I guess it was because they have never seen you without your armour before. Or ride out without a contingent of guards. When was the last time you did something just for the fun of it?", she threw him a questioning look. Cullen racked his brain but could find no answer to that question, and it seemed she hadn't expected him to. By some subtle signal from her, the roan slowed and stopped in the middle of the road. Shenlira looked around, deliberating.

"I thought as much…", she said pensively before she met his gaze. "I think this will do." A roguish glint came to her grey eyes and she flashed him a smile so distinctly flirtatious, it rendered him speechless.

"Try and catch me!", came her taunt, and with no warning, no command or pull of the reins, the roan lunged forward into full gallop, like a silver arrow in flight. The tiny moment it took him go into pursuit gave her a great head start, but the stallion would not be outdone so easily. He needn't even have pushed Black, the horse accelerated on his own as though instinct denied that he should be made to follow – he was used to leading the charge! Unencumbered by the usual weight he carried, Cullen experienced for the first time how fast the magnificent animal could truly run. Black's flanks gleamed like obsidian as he lengthened his stride until it seemed his hooves didn't even touch the ground, and Cullen leaned forward against the burst of speed. Grinning widely, he felt the mount's assent as he let it free to run its course, holding the reins only as purchase. So focused was he on Shenlira, whose dark grey cloak unfurled behind her like a banner in the wind, he startled when they broke through the trees into a wide, open clearing. Sunlight hit him, a blinding radiance that bounced off the snowy field spreading out before them. The barely containable urge to shout, to just let it all out, here where nobody would give a damn overcame him, but instead he simply started laughing and didn't even know why. He almost caught her then. The roan slowed for a second and the woman in the saddle turned to him. Exhilarated laughter answered his, merry as a forest sprite, eyes dancing with excitement and joy.

"Too slow, Sajnalin!", she called to him and her voice lilted, as if she could barely refrain from breaking into song. It was this moment when he knew, with absolute certainty, that he wanted, needed to take his place at her side and never leave it. Not after the war was done, not in twenty years, not ever. She was what she was, a creature only ever half-tamed, but she had chosen to run with him and not anyone else this day. Cullen knew her well enough by now to understand the subtle message in that act. Something of his thoughts must have shown, because Shenlira instinctively let her roan fall back and into unison with Black's stride. The stallion took the lead by one nose-length, as was his due, judging by the gratified neigh he let out. The chase became unimportant as they rode side by side. The chilly winter air made skin bristle with cold, and yet Cullen savoured the rush of speed that unfettered him of all shackles, all burden. He felt light, weightless. It was wonderful. They ran without direction for a while, turning and accelerating, then slowing down again, content in each other's company.

Sometime later, Shenlira led them to the edge of the great clearing where a cluster of pine trees stood in a half circle. Beyond, Cullen saw the plain end abruptly in a steep precipice. She dismounted smoothly and looked up at him, cheeks rosy and a wide smile still on her face. Then she unfastened the sack behind her roan's saddle and went to a long wooden tray standing in the middle of the small grove. Cullen couldn't fathom what she was up to until he saw her empty rich yellow grain into the tray. Suddenly, she threw back her head and let out a strange keening call that sounded more animal than human. And surely enough, it was answered. Between the trees, Halla came to join them with careful steps. He'd seen them before, but rarely. They were shy and unapproachable, skittish when happening on people's paths. Deerlike creatures whose coats were whiter than snow, their curved horns almost half as long as their slender bodies. Humans had hunted them close to extinction for their hides and horns, before the elves had taken it upon themselves to protect them. They were hallowed animals to the Dalish, Cullen knew, believed to carry the souls of elves to the afterlife. Now the half dozen Halla watched him with intelligent, vigilant eyes, but when they noticed Shenlira's relaxed stance in his presence, they proceeded to the food tray without further qualms. She took off her gloves and ran her hand gently over one's pristine pelt. The gesture filled Cullen with an inexplicable yearning.

"It's hard to find enough food to survive the winter, without a Dalish clan near to care for them. Whenever I return to Skyhold, I try to feed them. Go on, they won't mind.", she picked a stray leaf from one of their backs, and Cullen stepped closer. He pulled off a glove put his hand to the closest animal's side. The Halla's winter coat was woolly, soft, like a knitted sweater. It made him smile.

"This place… It's like sanctuary to me. I come here when my mind is so crowded that I can't even think clearly. It's not much…"

"But it's precious to you.", he simply said. Shenlira ventured a direct look and found him gazing at her with an intensity that made her jittery. The sight of Cullen astride the great black horse in full gallop, his face alive with excitement, his eyes a gleaming amber colour in the sunlight… She'd never forget that. It was a lucky charm, a talisman… Precious beyond measure. That image would be stored inside her heart and she would draw strength from it, as she did with this place, whenever she felt darkness close in all around her. She cleared her throat when the silence lengthened.

"Y..yes. But I didn't just bring you here for me. Did you see that ledge? It goes at least a hundred feet down. I thought… If you want to destroy the box, you could…", but he was already at Black's saddle and unfastening it. When Cullen walked to the edge of the cliff, she didn't follow at first, unsure if he wanted her company just then. It seemed like an extremely personal thing and she did not want to intrude on it, so she turned to the Halla and left him some space.

"What are you doing, Lira? You have to bear witness if it is to be a symbol.", Cullen suddenly said as if it was self-evident. Shenlira joined him at the precipice, standing a little way behind as she watched him turn the box thoughtfully in his hands. The sun readied itself to reach the edge of the mountain peaks in the distance, bathing his profile in a golden light. Many expressions fleeted across his handsome features, anxiety and anger, regret and guilt chasing each other in a flurry of emotions. Until a profound determination settled around him and his voice, deep and sure, lifted into the winter air.

 _"Sever the line to the guilty past,  
To the ones who brought us nothing.  
Spoke of futures brave and proud,  
And brought only hate and war.  
Lined the roads with hollow praise,  
Marked the lands with paper statues.  
Shadows fell on their futile ways,  
And then there was nothing more." _

Cullen heaved a great sigh, before he reached back and threw the box far, into the sunset, down and away. It flew in an arc and fell many feet into the deep, then hit the jagged rock formations that stuck like daggers from the bottom of the cliff. The wooden casket shattered to countless splinters, its contents scattering in all directions. Shenlira saw a glint of brightest blue disappear between the rocks, never to be retrieved. They stood in silence for a while.

"A templar wrote that. One who left the order for fear what we were becoming. I don't know if he was lucky enough to make it through his Lyrium withdrawal. But those words felt like a prayer of grief, of letting go.", he said quietly as he turned to her. Worry lined Shenlira's face, her smooth brow furrowed.

"Will you be alright? Can something bad still happen to you because of the Lyrium?", her voice was muted, concerned, and it moved him in a way that still felt so unfamiliar. He wasn't used to this kind of affection, but swore to himself never to squander it or take it for granted, but to cherish it as the gift it was. Somehow his expression must have betrayed the thought, because she blushed and her gaze skittered sideways from his, fixating the hem of his cloak. A bashful, shy habit he'd seen her do several times by now.

"I'm not sure, but I have hope that the worst is over. My hands always used to be cold… But now…", his voice dropped to a whisper and Shenlira inhaled sharply when his hand lifted to her face, just like that night during his episode. But today, his fingers were warm as they brushed over her cheek and, very gently, turned her so she would meet his eyes. A look of longing burned in those dark depths and she had the feeling she would be drawn into it and never emerge again, not that she wanted to. She'd gone perfectly still beneath his touch, afraid that if she moved she'd break the magic of the moment and at the same time anxious about what he would do. Her heart was anything but still though, thrumming as if determined to beat its way out of her chest. And inside her head, two voices screamed utterly contradicting things at each other _– Stay still! Wait, wait – No, do something, anything, please_ –. Cullen let his hand wander to her throat and felt it ripple as she swallowed, before his fingers pressed lightly to the soft skin where her pulse was in frantic disarray, a hot rush of her life-force under his touch.

"So I didn't imagine that. Like a bird's wings…", he seemed to be talking more to himself, but there was a kind of wondrous curiosity in his voice. Last time, he had not been in his right mind, not responsible for his actions and words. But now his gaze shone clear, resolute… Ardent. Shenlira stopped breathing for a small eternity. Words failed her and besides, if she'd spoken then her voice would have faltered anyway.

"I wonder…" Whatever it was that he wondered, his sentence went forever unfinished. Cullen's hand slid to her nape and he pulled her close. She didn't resist, only let out a gasp before his mouth covered hers. It was like being struck by lightning, an invigorating, bright thunderbolt. His lips were soft and warm but she felt the tight control he held as if not to startle her. It seemed a fickle thing though, for the moment she relaxed against him and her hands came to rest on his chest, a strong arm wrapped around her and pressed her against his body so firmly it almost lifted her off her feet. His tongue sought entrance into the silken depth of her mouth, cajoling and coaxing her lips to part until she granted it, letting him explore. She shuddered and tingled all over, not from cold, oh not at all. The new, wonderful sensation dizzied her. It wasn't that Shenlira had never been kissed before, but… not like this, with such passion that her skin suddenly felt too tight, as though she'd jump out of it any second now. He tasted unlike anything she'd experienced, defying description, but inexplicably reminded her of some heady, sweet summer drink. A deep sound built inside his chest at her reaction, a primal sound of pure instinct. Some part of her, so anxious before, now leapt into song and dance, crying out its joy. _Finally!_ Time lost its meaning and she had no idea how long their kiss lasted, only that when he pulled away, she was breathless and her whole body felt as if on fire. And hadn't it already been, then the unveiled desire in his eyes would have set her aflame. His breathing was uneven and beneath her hands, his steady heartbeat raced like a winded horse.

Cullen had to wait for several moments to compose himself. He'll be damned if a single kiss untethered him like this. The feel of her warm softness, her breasts pressed to his chest and her tongue on his, the taste like some delicious spice… The rush of exhilaration had almost made him lose control. Yes, yes, you could just spread out your cloak and lay her down and let it all happen – He'd been on the verge of throwing her into the soft snow and… No, that wouldn't do, she wasn't some one-time fling one could quickly conduct in the middle of the wilderness, at the height of winter. She deserved to be courted with great care, pursued ardently and made to understand how precious she was to him. Still, he leaned in and kissed her once more, but this time just a feather-light brush over her full lips, like a promise. A fleeting memory invaded Shenlira with that touch. _This had happened before._ _In a dream… Or not a dream at all._ Cullen watched her carefully as the realization dawned on her face. Her eyes were close enough that he could see the intricate weave of colour in them, a filigree braid of silver on dark velvet. They now took on a stunned expression, her pupils widening until there only a thin ring of grey and blue remained.

"I thought I had dreamed that, but… You… have done this before.", her voice was a mere whisper and he searched her face for a sign of anger, but found none. Rather, her fingers went to her lips, as though some magic still lingered there to be caught.

"I have thought about doing that for longer than I care to admit. Yesterday, I gave in and stole that from you. I'm sorry, it was…", his gaze was apologetic as it slid away, but Shenlira reached up to his face. The skin on his cheek was smooth beneath the rough, unshaved bristles. It fascinated her to no end, and she noticed she'd spent some time running her fingers over the peculiar texture when she found him looking at her with a slight smile.

"How long?", she asked, a bit meekly.

"Since the day at the pens, when you sang the soldier's song.", he answered, closing his eyes for a moment and enjoying her gentle touch before he added, "Last night, you… You looked so beautiful in your sleep. I couldn't resist. I'm not that strong.", he admitted, cursing his fumbling for words. But Shenlira gave him that shy, secret smile that made his heart quicken every time, without fail.

"That was reckless, Sajnalin. It only saved you that I was already dreaming about you in the first place. Still, I'm stealing it back.", this in a teasing voice, but then she wrapped her arm around his neck and stretched to tiptoe to reach his lips. It was brief, yet before she pulled away, her tongue slipped out and danced over his in a merry taunt. He caught her in his arms when she tried to skip off and felt her laugh against his chest as he pulled his cloak around her shoulders, but no struggle whatsoever came from her. She simply relaxed into his warmth and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply the scent of lilac and something unique, indefinable, fey… They stood in this tender embrace for a time unmeasured, between the Halla that had dispersed to browse to ground for grass by now, between the ageless pine-trees under a darkening sky, who were all of them oblivious to the strong emotions that had been exchanged in their midst. Only when the distinct chill of nightfall began to creep into the air did Cullen let go of her, unwillingly. Shenlira seemed to sense his reluctance, for she let out long breath laden with regret.

"We have to go back, don't we?", she said, her gaze trained on the far side of the clearing where they had come from. Cullen nodded gravely and whistled to his mount, which came trotting immediately.

"I'm afraid yes, and if only to soothe my conscience. It's getting dark, and I can't protect you against threats I can't see.", he explained with knitted brows. Her heart went open wide at the concern in his voice.

"I will endeavour not to upset your peace of mind so much anymore.", she promised earnestly, but could not refrain from adding in a rueful tone, "Although I shudder at the thought of Josephine's notes about nobles piling on my desk… Which reminds me, you not only stole a kiss but all my scouting reports. I need those back!", the remark turned to fake accusation at the end.

"And you shall get them back when we return. Under one condition.", Cullen let his words sink in and was amused when an indignant look came to her face.

"Which is?", she demanded. Instead of an answer, he gripped her around the waist with both hands and effortlessly lifted her off her feet, up so high she let out a strangled cry of surprise. He settled her into Black's saddle with a self-satisfied smile, then climbed up behind her in a jump much to smooth for a man of his size. "Ride back on Black with me. For peace of mind.", he whispered close to her elegant, pointed ear, feeling a tremble run through her body. Black was completely unfazed by the additional weight, used to carrying a heavier load than this. Shenlira tried to gather her scattered thoughts, a futile endeavour. The solid, hard length of his body at her back was simultaneously unsettling and comforting, if such a blend even existed. She could sense the training of many years in the disciplined stance with which he sat the saddle, the hardened muscles in his arms as he reached around her to take the reins.

"What about Ash? And Heartwood?", she protested. The roan approached when she spoke her name, and Cullen leaned over to fetch the bow and quiver from the horse's back, putting them both into her hands. He was absolutely sure that the nimble mount would follow them home, so much so that he didn't bind the reins to Black's.

"I can't hold the reins like this!", she complained. Cullen had the nerve to laugh, his chest vibrating against her back.

"You shoot from horseback all the time, and you hardly ever use the reins anyway, Lira.", he sounded amused at her scoff.

"Not from the saddle of a battle horse, and with another rider – the weight is all off, I… I can't feel the answer of his muscles and the stirrups are missing. I need the reins!", she babbled in a panicked sort of way, but oh, he was having too much fun to heed. Her rambling was cut off when he kicked Black to a canter and she swayed, but he steadied her with one hand on her flat stomach. Ash followed without fuss, although he caught a befuddled look from the roan as she fell into suit beside them. Shenlira went rigid in his arms, before she slowly settled into the unfamiliar situation. The downside of his plan was that he had to concentrate on the road with all his might, for if he acknowledged her intimate closeness, the firm curve of heir backside pressed between his legs, to his… Then no amount of banter would help him. With every lurch of the stallion's back it became harder to battle the male instinct his body wanted to give in to, and it had been hard enough already during the kiss in the clearing, quite literally. He knew not how he managed it, but sent a prayer of gratitude to the heavens for his stringend training in self-control. Still, Cullen was glad when her grumbling provided a distraction. _Yes, please talk, so I won't have to think about touching you everywhere…_

"Black, though. More like Charger. He was so eager to take the lead on Ash before, he might have sprouted wings. Did you know, some people believe that year-long familiarity with each other will attune a mount to its rider? I wonder... This one, his stride feels… triumphant.", she mused.

"So do I." An unmistakable smile rang in his tone and Shenlira was silent for a long moment, before she spoke in a small voice that almost got the words lost in the wind, "You do?"

"I destroyed that cursed box in a very satisfying way, and that felt like freedom. This thing we did today… I haven't felt such simple enjoyment since…", he faltered in his explanation, as though trying hard to remember something. "Too long, Lira. I'm sure there is a memory of it somewhere, but I piled so many unpleasant ones on top of it, it's buried deep. I feel like I separated from something today that has been a part of me for so long it feels almost strange to be rid of it. And at the same time, I retrieved something I thought was lost. Does that make sense at all?"

"It does, Cullen. I think I understand. Sometimes parting with an old ache can leave back a sense of loss… Like a phantom pain. It will fade with time. And… I'm very glad that you liked this little excursion." She leaned back against him and let her head rest on his shoulder, her lids closed, trusting that he would lead them home safely.

Cullen scanned the forest for anything unusual, but high above on the hillsides he glimpsed a watchful sentry camp that seemed silent and calm. Black rode in a measured pace, unhurried, letting him know that everything was in order around them. He wondered distractedly what the watch posts would make of the picture that he and Shenlira painted, riding on the same horse. He decided that he should probably let her mount Ash before they reached Skyhold. There would be enough talk about it already without a sight of them that spoke volumes. But that didn't mean he felt no reluctance in having to let her go. Shenlira gave a small sigh as if her thoughts were in assent to his and he turned his attention back to her.

"Of course, the true reason why I feel triumphant has little to do with such complicated matters. But rather with the simple fact that I kissed you, and you did not pull away or slap me.", he said so seriously that she turned to regard him with an incredulous look.

"You actually thought I would slap you?", she piped up. Cullen kept his vigilant eyes on the woods, the fading daylight now shrouding the pine trees in shadow. Yet there was merriment in his tone when he answered.

"I didn't think it likely, but there is no absolute certainty where you are concerned. I wouldn't even put it beyond you that one morning I'll find you teaching a bear how to dance and the shock will give me a heart attack. Unlikely, but not impossible.", he paused, before he continued more soberly, "I might never be able to fully anticipate you. It both frightens me and fills me with joy, a strange feeling… But the risk is such an insubstantial thing, compared to what I gain."

This earnest admission, it seemed, rendered Shenlira speechless. She made several attempts to speak, but soon gave up and instead laid her palm flat on the back of his hand, still holding her steady in the saddle. Her fingers entwined with his and she turned a little, until her face nestled into the crook of his neck. The tenderness of this gesture spoke to him more clearly than words ever could have. Her lips began to move, at first building soundlessly, then her voice lifted to a quiet song. The lyrics were elven, but he recognized it as the one she'd chosen when he had so bluntly requested her to sing to soothe his troubled mind. And just as back then, Cullen felt its magic take hold in him, like a tiny light, guiding their way home through the night.


	6. VI Autumn Ivy

_The last chapter was quite long, which makes this one seem a bit short. It is a bit 'sedate' story-wise but contains some important relationship development that I felt was worth dedicating a smaller chapter to. It also draws a good arc to the events that will follow. As always, enjoy :)_

 **VI. Autumn Ivy**

 _All Alaslin know: You can wield the most fantastic, masterful bow and yet you will starve out in the wilds or be struck down by the shem's sword if you do not have the right arrow to use with it. It is not the bow that brings down your prey, it is your arrow. Neglect the arrow in favour for the bow and you will be a second-rate archer, not worth my time. Only together, in perfect harmony, in preparation for every situation, can the archer breathe life into the weapon. Understand that, and you might someday deserve to call yourself First Huntress.  
Alaslin Faleera Lavellan_

* * *

"You were gone.", Leliana commented in a lazy, suggestive sort of voice. It was noon the next day when Cullen returned from a meeting with his captains and found the spymaster in his tower room, looking inexplicably smug. She lounged in his desk chair with no qualms, like she owned the place.

The evening before, Cullen had returned as quietly as possible with Shenlira, but escaping notice was impossible in a fully manned keep. _Nobody to fault but yourself, for meticulously planning each watch rotation like assembling a clockwork._ The sentry camps were the bigger problem though. Those not only reported back to him but to Leliana too. Hence, Cullen didn't believe for a second that she didn't know where he had been last afternoon. With more than a little reluctance he had parted from Shenlira when the horses had been stabled and had spent a night that had brought him next to no rest, but instead very colourful dreams. Colourful and maddening.

Now he was at a bit of a loss how to proceed after the meaningful events yesterday. For the first time in his life that he felt such a connection to a woman, if one excluded the few brief infatuations of youth. The anxiety that he might muck it all up hung above his head in a menacing fashion. He felt a little like a fledgling gardener who hadn't chosen to start with pansies or something similarly easy, but instead was in over his head by trying to grow Royal Elfroot. Shenlira had an enigmatic mind that eluded full understanding, an expanse of which he'd probably seen more than most people. Still, she rarely gave voice to the secrets in her heart, and therefore until now he had stumbled along with little guidance from her, avoiding obstacles like a drunk trying not to trip. _What do I do now?,_ he wondered helplessly.

"We had an informal meeting scheduled yesterday at sunset, but you were nowhere to be found. Curious. Where were you?", Leliana roused Cullen from his rambling thoughts. He threw her a scowl.

"Don't act like you don't know exactly where I was. Are you a spymaster or not? I went for a ride.", he said pointedly. The woman had the nerve to smirk.

"I am spymaster. But the Shenlira is Alaslin. She can disappear if she doesn't want to be seen, and you two did escape the sight of my sentries for more than an hour… Then they report you two coming back on the same horse. There is already quite the talk. I wonder…", she let the words hang in the air suggestively, making Cullen groan. Well… Not surprising, but still vexing.

"Nothing is private around here, is it?", he complained in a rueful tone. Leliana gave a little shrug.

"Don't worry, Cullen. It was obvious to most, although you took your time. Varric had a betting jar, I think.", Leliana said thoughtfully, unfazed by his disconcerted expression. He shooed the meddling spymaster from his desk chair with a decisive hand gesture and Leliana mercifully stopped grilling him then, turning both their attention to more serious matters. Yet her last remark lingered like some annoying fly buzzing around his head. When they had addressed most of the immediate issues and Leliana moved to leave for her raven tower, Cullen stopped her by clearing his throat.

"Leliana… Ehm.", he began awkwardly, " _You're_ a woman…"

"Why thank you for noticing. But if you wish to try your most smouldering gaze on me, I have to disappoint you. I am not affected by your looks.", she interrupted when he didn't go on at first. The Commander made a sound of disdain.

"I know that. I was meaning to say 'You're a woman of worldly means'. Humour me, spiteful creature. I have next to no experience with these matters and…", here he heaved a sigh and Leliana's expression warmed visibly.

"You worry too much, you're doing just fine. I think I know what this is about… Uncertain what to do now, hm?", she inquired and when he gave a small, grudging nod, she went on in a strangely gentle voice. "These things can't be planned like some guard rotation or battle tactics, Cullen. You have to let them come to you naturally. The uncertainty you feel now is completely normal and besides, it's the most exhilarating thing about it. Just do whatever feels right." Cullen looked doubtful about her words.

"That's your advice? Be spontaneous? I'm doomed.", he stated ominously, making Leliana laugh. Then, more soberly, "She did something very considerate for me yesterday. I want to show my gratitude somehow." The spymaster inclined her head, contemplating this for a long moment.

"I see… Maybe now is the time for an actual gift. Ah, and I know just the thing."

Despite her comradely jibes, Leliana gave him sound advice as always. She suggested to Cullen that he requisition something for Shenlira, a unique item specifically designed for her. They argued for a while what sort of item it should be and then decided on a quiver. Leliana told him she'd heard the Inquisitor complain about the frayed, worn-out thing she used at the present, but she still refrained from requesting new gear as long as it wasn't falling to pieces. Probably this reared from the Dalish in her – the clans' nomadic nature did not allow for much luxury and the elves made most things themselves, only throwing them away when they were rendered completely useless. Surprisingly, almost every requisition by Shenlira had actually been a veiled order by companions in her name, who then found very clever explanations why she needed some item or other. The only thing she regularly put out requisitions for were arrows. Leliana brought him copies of the order sheets for the fletcher and Cullen was baffled by the complexity of the instructions. For example, one said this:

30 regular  
spruce back, winter-cut  
aspen front, spring-cut  
33 inches long  
three-blade broadhead, double-tempered steel  
four-point star Dalish fletching, grey goose

…the list went on, endlessly. How many different ways were there to craft arrows, Cullen wondered? There were orders for long-range arrows, but ironically those needed to be shorter, the fletching different. Others were especially good against armour, with thinner arrowheads like needles. The reply parchments dribbled with either praise by the fletcher that finally, someone had given him a challenge, or despair when he was unable to fill some particularly specific request. Since he could make neither heads nor tails of the instructions, Cullen visited the keep's fletcher, a man named Adrian, and together they planned a set of superb cedar arrows. Adrian explained to him that cedar was very resistant to rot and aging, perfect if he wanted the arrows to survive for a long time. The beautiful, coffee-coloured wood had a natural, pleasant fragrance, emphasizing the ceremonial purpose. – "These are to be ceremonial arrows, yes?", the fletcher had inquired.

"Something like that.", Cullen had answered enigmatically. The other man promptly went into a lengthy monologue about the fletching, it should be snow goose, yes, he'd see it would be perfect! Politely extricating himself before Adrian got too riled up, he went to the leatherworker next.

Over several days, he used a bit of free time in the afternoons – while Shenlira had etiquette 'lessons' with Josephine – to put together a plan for the gift he intended to give her. He picked out the leather and fur linings, and reeled in recommendations for an artist who could create stitching in traditional elven style. For the second time, he went to Solas for advice, this time about which motif the leather should wear. As once before when he'd sought counsil concerning the legend of Sajnalin, the mage appeared both courteous and pleased to help him. Or at least that was what he said – one could never know with Solas. Out of the many seemingly arbitrary suggestions he made, Cullen picked a pattern of autumn coloured ivy. He didn't understand the next thing about plant symbolism, but ivy seemed fitting somehow, in an almost lyrical sense. A plant that grew ever upwards, but it needed a solid thing to support it. _Just like Lira_ , he smiled to himself.

"Good choice, Commander.", Solas told him as confirmation. "A symbol of endurance in many cultures, ivy. Here, I'll make you a rough sketch."

A week after putting in the requisition, Cullen was quite pleased when he received the result. He wrote a withdrawal permission for an exorbitant sum, but both the leatherworker and the fletcher refused his money outright. They clarified that if this would be a gift for the Inquisitor, they would not be payed, just wished everyone who asked about it to be referred to them. Their generosity baffled him into silence and by the time he found his voice again, they had both excused themselves.

* * *

Shenlira had just suffered through another daily session with Josephine that had twisted her mind into knots and made her back stiff as a plank. _Why do nobles need to sit straight all the time?_ She stretched to loosen the muscles in her shoulders as she crossed the throne room to her quarters, intending to spend a quiet hour before she did her afternoon training. The last week had been the exact same routine – wake up at dawn, wash, resolve keep concerns, attend the war room meeting, eat, study court etiquette, train, read reports until midnight. Oh, and of course, be visited by nightmares during sleep. Rarely she found an hour here and there to visit Cullen and have a private moment with him. Or to spend a little time with her close friends, like the long discussions she had with Solas or the games of Wicked Grace with Varric. But she'd been unusually busy the whole week, since the departure of the Inquisition party to the ball at the Winter Palace drew closer and closer each day. The thought that she was running out of time to learn enough about the great Game filled her with a dread apprehension that had made the nightmares renew in full force. Every time she woke, Shenlira had to fight the impulse to look for Cullen, because his closeness meant comfort. It was just what he did, without even thinking about it, as though steadying the world around himself was some intricate part of his nature. She suspected it was. But she couldn't run around the keep in her nightshirt, frantically seeking him out and imposing herself onto him just so her bad dreams would go away – or could she? _No, don't be clingy, it's too early! Don't dump your issues on him, he has enough to worry about_ , reason cautioned. They were just starting to ease into their relationship, although what that meant was beyond her. She'd never been serious about these things with anyone before, and felt much like a blindfolded person trying to grope her way through glass merchant's shop. With this internal dilemma crowding her mind, Shenlira entered her quarters and almost ran over the recruit who stood there, holding something folded in fabric. The young man had been staring at the curios she'd brought home from her journeys and now startled into alertness immediately.

"Your Worship! Forgive me –", he began, but she made a placating gesture. The recruits were often nervous around her, a disconcerting thing she tried to disperse as much as she could. He bowed gratefully and set the bundle in his arms down on her desk. "This arrived for you today my lady, and I was told to deliver it." Curiously, she walked to the desk, pulling the fabric from around the package.

"I haven't put in a requisition-", but her words got stuck in her throat when she saw what waited inside. A quiver, but unlike any quiver she'd ever seen before. Made from white velour leather, the folds knit together masterfully, each seam inlaid with a thin lining of silver fur. A pattern of autumn coloured ivy leaves ran across the whole front, the embroidery so exquisite and lifelike that she reached out in awe, thinking she might be able to pick the leaves right off the surface. She let her fingers trace the gold and orange and vermillion threads, then the leather which was so smooth her fingertips left little, slightly darker lines on it. An aromatic cedar scent drifted from the white quiver and Shenlira pulled one of the dozen arrows from their cradle. These too were remarkable, crafted lovingly from fragrant wood and polished to shine, the heads glinting and razor-sharp, the fletchings like freshly fallen snow. Even the nocks, they were made of horn! Unbelievable. She'd never dared to request horn nocks before… _So expensive, but oh how they will fit around the bowstring! Like a key to its lock._

"I… I didn't order such a thing. It's incredible, unique craftsmanship. It must be worth a fortune. This has to be some kind of mistake…", she said, her voice utterly mystified.

"Forgive me your Worship, but it is yours. I heard the Commander tell Sister Leliana that the masters refused to be paid for the crafting-", the recruit, but Shenlira cut him short.

"They what?!", her voice rose to such a pitch at the end, little dogs would have started barking at the sound. The young soldier looked alarmed.

"It's a gift. The order came from the Commander.", he clarified, unsettled at seeing her dumbstruck expression. Cullen! Oh no, he couldn't have – the sweet, thoughtful gesture nearly overwhelmed her.

"Where is he right now?", she demanded while she strapped the quiver over her shoulder. The buckle at her chest was light silver, shaped like her personal insignia: The Inquisition sword and eye surrounded by a stag's antlers. The symbol had been designed by a heraldry artist, paying credit to both clan Lavellan and the Inquisition – her affiliations. She fastened the buckle and grabbed Heartwood.

"Overseeing an exercise in the outer courtyard, I think…", the recruit said, but she'd already rushed past like a lively breeze. Shenlira called him a "Thank you!" and simply left him standing there, stunned.

Cullen stood on the side as he watched the recruits fight with practice swords in pairs. He'd shown them several easy manoeuvres to parry blows from the flank and they were doing a horrible job at trying to copy the move. Most likely many of them would have colourful bruises on arms and hips when they went to bed today, but pain was usually a very good teacher. Especially for the ones who were still green with youthful recklessness, like that Marten pup. Suddenly he heard his name called with an unmistakable lilt. Several sparring recruits stopped in their tracks at the sound and he turned to see Shenlira half-running, half-dancing towards him, a joyful smile on her face that could have outshone the sun. He froze in place, momentarily blinded by that sight. Before he could react, she was upon him, her spirited jump into his arms almost overthrowing him. She kissed him full on the mouth, in front of twenty recruits and several bystanders, who all let out gasps of astonishment or even whistles, the nerve of them. Cullen was both breathless and stunned with amazement when she let go of him. Her eyes were ablaze with a coltish happiness that turned him weak inside.

"Thank you, Sajnalin. It's incredible.", Shenlira whispered, skipping on the spot like she couldn't contain herself. "I have to try it right now! I'll find you later, alright?", she added at a normal volume, her words almost tripping over themselves. Then she flashed him one last, dazzling smile and turned towards someone in the courtyard.

"Bull, Krem! Saddle the horses! We go to hunt!", she called suddenly. Cullen saw the white quiver on her back and knew a wild sort of pride at the sight. He'd done something profoundly right. It was a perfect fit beside Heartwood, bouncing with jaunty grace as she walked away, her steps infused with joy. He watched her dazedly, until someone coughed politely behind his back and he realized the recruits were all staring at him in disbelief. He turned the full force of his scowl at them.

"You can pick your jaws off the ground now. Or have you never seen something like that before?", he snapped. Recruit Marten was either very brave or very stupid when he spoke.

"We are just glad to see that you have a softer side, Sir. We were starting to think that you are not quite human…" Several others smirked to that but their faces immediately turned blank at Cullen's expression.

"If you could finally learn to hold a sword right, maybe you would attract the favour of a respectable woman like that.", he pointed out sardonically.

"I doubt there is anyone quite like _that_.", Marten retorted ruefully. To all of their surprise, the Commander gave an almost unnoticeable, satisfied sort of smile at his words and nodded once.

"True. You do have some common sense, after all.", this in a grudging undertone. Then, his voice suddenly back to the one of command they knew well, "Back to training with you!"

* * *

Several hours later, Shenlira returned and announced to the tavern cook that they all would dine on venison stew tonight. People approached her about the white quiver and she showed it to them proudly, even letting several battlement archers try out nocking the cedar arrows. Wishing to convey her gratitude in person, she visited Adrian and the keep leatherworker. They both grew several inches at her praise and thanks, looking so smug they might have floated right off the ground.

Cullen was surprised when the usual maid who brought his dinner to the tower room entered carrying two trays and was followed by Shenlira, who still radiated happiness like a buoyant little flame.

"Would you have dinner with me?", she asked almost formally, obviously in jest.

"Of course, my lady.", he answered in the same playfully polite tone, sitting down with her at the small corner table. He'd scheduled a meeting with her anyway this evening, and this was a very pleasant way to spend it. They spoke for a while about the Inquisition efforts in the Western Approach, here and there noting issues that should be addressed, but later the conversation turned to less serious matters, such as the recruit's faces when they'd seen the vigorous display she'd made in the afternoon or how Bull had run towards a stag with his axe raised, trying to melee it to death. Cullen laughed at that mental image.

"But this is something I always wondered. Your people both hold animals sacred and at the same time you hunt them for meat, hide, and such. I don't really…", he trailed away, searching for a courteous way to voice his question, but Shenlira, finished with her stew, put down the fork and smiled faintly.

"You don't see how we live with such a dualism? It might seem like a double-standard. It's alright, Sajnalin – you do no insult by asking such questions. It all has to do with balance, a thing that Alaslin learn to understand very well, maybe even better than most Dalish. All life is sacred. But we cannot survive without meat to feed us in time of hunger, without fur and hide to make clothes against the cold of winter. By sustaining us, the stag's death serves a greater purpose – it settles into the delicate circle that is life. The part of his body that we leave behind returns to the earth and might help a tree to grow, grass to sprout. Just as we do, when our bodies are lowered into the ground from which the ancestor tree rises many years later. We become one in the end, predator and prey. And in between, we survive because of what nature gives us. That notion is… comforting. Mutuality, permanence." He listened thoughtfully, trying to commit those words into memory, for they carried a peculiar wisdom that felt almost spiritual, immemorable. They came from lives so differently lived, in both culture and faith, at the beginning it had felt like a chasm that couldn't possibly be bridged. He was a former templar, yet he had kept his dedication to the Maker. But that did not mean that he couldn't respect and appreciate her view of the world. She had never insisted on any sort of faith before and he believed that to her, these things were concepts to be learned and understood, just as she studied lore of all kinds. But he honestly wasn't sure if she saw herself as the Herald of Andraste or as faithful to her own people's beliefs.

"Do you believe in the elven gods or the Maker?", Cullen blurted out before he could stop himself. Shenlira's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Couldn't they both exist, in some way or the other?", she asked and he realized that he'd never thought about that possibility. "I am honestly not certain, Cullen. You can't know this, but I also have a bit of an odd relationship with the elven gods. It is Dalish tradition to mark an adult's face with Vallaslin – the tattoos you have surely seen on many elves. I was allergic to the ink. They tried several times, with me half-suffocating in each attempt. Many of the clan considered this a very bad omen, for no tattoos were synonym to 'faithless'. I was lucky that the former Alaslin and Keeper Deshanna both liked and supported me. It's long since become a mere quirk to the clan, but back when I was eighteen, life became quite messy for a while.", this she said in a rueful tone, as though she missed that time, or at least the simplicity of its problems. So this was the reason why she didn't bear the traditional face-markings…

"Life was messy for me too at eighteen. I was just a few weeks short of my Vigil, the ritual after which we become full Knight-Templar. Some of the others teased me about my constant studying and graveness… Let's just say locking adolescent boys up together with rigorous discipline doesn't always lead to lasting brotherhood between them. I got second thoughts. Was I doing the right thing? Would life always be this hard? It got so bad that I thought of running away and becoming… I don't know, a farmer.", Cullen elaborated and her before serious expression turned into one of amusement at the end.

"You? A farmer? Never. Not in a hundred lifetimes.", she smiled crookedly and he threw her a look of fake insult.

"Do you disdain the good people who tend the fields and reap the harvest, Lira? I never would have thought…", he made his voice deliberately sarcastic and was rewarded with a shocked expression on her face.

"Of course not! I just meant… Ehrr..", she fumbled for words and he couldn't resist, she was just too sweet when flustered. He leaned around the table and pulled her close for a kiss. It wasn't the first one since the day in the clearing, but she still had not gotten used to the swooping giddiness that accompanied each of them. _Hopefully, I never will. Not completel_ y. _It's so wonderful._ He was smiling when he let her go a little later, as though he'd read her thoughts.

* * *

Following this first occasion, having dinner together became a habit that Shenlira looked forward to after the busy schedule she had to keep. It was the high point of her day. The discussions ranged from serious Inquisition issues to jesting with each other, but no matter the topic, she always felt invigorated when she left his tower room, as though he'd somehow transferred a part of his strength to her. And she needed that strength badly. Too soon, the day of the departure to Halamshiral was upon them and Shenlira felt a paralyzing sort of anxiety. Despite all the lessons and advice she had been meticulously taught by both Josephine and Leliana, they hadn't hidden the fact from her that a Dalish 'savage' would be viewed with an even more critical eye than usual. _How on earth am I supposed to win their favour if they already dislike me?,_ she thought morosely as she got dressed. The chest containing most things she'd take with her had already been loaded onto the cart, but there were always a select few personal items she carried in her saddlebags, like the winter ram fur she hardly ever slept without. At one point during packing for the journey she realized that she was trying to cram a pair of breeches into her quiver. Hastily she pulled them out again, only to realize one of the arrows had ripped a hole in the fabric. Shenlira called out her dismay, but the damage was done. Well, this day was already going badly, she thought with resignation.

The keep boiled in utter uproar about the Inquisitor and her procession of advisors, companions and select contingent of soldiers leaving for Halamshiral. People were everywhere in the courtyard, leading saddled horses, carrying last-minute supplies to be loaded, inspecting the soundness of the carts or simply standing to watch the busy commotion. After he'd given the soldiers their marching orders, Cullen had waited until Master Dennet had personally brought out a saddled and serious Black. The stallion wore no harness, but instead a gleaming black leather saddle with an elegant, patterned plaid beneath, stirrups polished to perfection. At the question what this was about, the stablemaster eyed him doubtfully and explained he was going to a ball, not a battlefield. What did he need the harness for? Besides, the burden would needlessly exhaust the horse on the five-day journey. Cullen contemplated that for a man who was supposed to receive _his_ orders, the stablemaster was pretty accomplished at scolding him. He stroked Black's brow while his mind went through the departure plan when he noticed a cluster of people close by who seemed to be watching him. Most of them were women, either maids or gardeners or other keep folk. They whispered excitedly among them while throwing odd little looks at him. As soon as he returned the attention, they hushed each other, giggled, and then avoided his gaze. What in the…

"Ah, what have we here?", unmistakably from behind, this was Varric's voice. The dwarf led a docile-looking, dappled pony by the reins, his unique crossbow slung around his shoulder and a dirty smirk on his face. "The women of the keep are in great lament about something, Curly. And I don't think it's because we ran out of elderberry wine. There is a much more interesting rumour going around…", he let his words hang in the air suggestively and Cullen felt his face burn with mortification. Varric had spoken loudly enough so the whispering flock had heard. He threw the dwarf a scathing look.

"Are you sure that pony is not too tall for you? Do you need my help getting into the saddle?", he said, dripping with sarcasm. Varric scoffed and opened his mouth to object, but they were interrupted by soft hoofbeats. Shenlira, already seated on Ash, rode up to them in a light-footed canter. She donned a knee-long, asymmetrical leather jacket inlaid with fur and had tamed her wild mane into an intricate braid, although a few strands curled cheekily around her face. Her personal insignia gleamed silver on the lapel. It felt strange looking up at her for once, but she made a striking figure on horseback, as always holding the reins more out of habit than of true need.

"I'd like to scout ahead.", she announced and watched the slight smile disappear from his face. He gave her a look of gentle rebuke.

"You know I can't let you do that. It's dangerous and besides, Josephine would throw a fit if you disappear from sight. It's an official procession and the whole point is to catch people's attention.", he explained in a placating tone. Shenlira noticed the cluster of women watching him avidly and her eyes glinted with a venomous spite so unlike her, Cullen startled.

"Maybe you should ride beside me then, since you seem to attract a veritable flock of geese everywhere you go.", she said this quite nastily, but raised her voice even a little more for what came next. "They would do well not to pick on grounds that have been claimed." And just like that, she for once pulled on the reins forcefully and turned her back on all of them, cantering away towards Dorian and Solas on the other side of the courtyard. Cullen was dumbstruck.

"What in the Maker's name was that?", he wondered, completely at a loss what had just happened. Varric let out a laugh beside him.

"That, my friend, was a bout of female jealousy. Ah, this day started dull, but now it's positively exciting! Your predicaments continue to entertain me, Curly." Varric mounted the stirrups and swung himself into the pony's saddle, still grinning. That insolent dwarf… Cullen had half a mind to throttle him.

If he thought that would be the end of the matter, he couldn't have been more wrong. The bridge of Skyhold was barely behind them when Varric suddenly broke into song. He boomed a bawdy tune about a handsome knight who made a vow of celibacy and sent all the women into fits of keening and grief that all his lovemaking skills would go to waste. Cullen had seldom been so embarrassed in his whole life, since the song had an unmistakable implication to his person. It was well-known all-around taverns, and so several soldiers fell into suit with Varric. Shenlira went rigid in the saddle a few paces in front of him, obviously the meaning of the sultry lyrics had not passed her by. Cullen was infinitely relieved when they finally fell silent and he guided Black to her side while he racked his brain for something harmless to say.

"We made good time on the departure…", he began, noting that her gaze stayed decidedly trained forward, avoiding his. _Oh damnation, she really didn't take being poked to jealousy kindly…_ A distinct blush had crept to her cheeks. She nodded once.

"The weather seems favourable. If it holds, we might arrive a little early.", Cullen went on, although he could have been reciting the Chant of Light to her for all the attention he got for it. Then an idea came to him.

"I can't believe it. Is Josephine actually wearing a bonnet?", this in a deliberately shocked voice. It was a full success.

"What? Where?", Shenlira turned with an avid curiosity and Cullen took clever advantage of her distraction. He leaned a little sideways in the saddle and reached for the collar of her coat, pulling her whole body towards him. Surprise rendered her unresisting and she let out a startled gasp when he suddenly kissed her full on the mouth. The man even had the nerve to flick his tongue over the seam of her lips before he let her go again. Someone whistled suggestively behind them.

"Cullen! The whole march can see us!", she rebuked him, her eyes going wide. But there was also the slightest hint of satisfaction in her voice. He straightened on Black.

"Oh them, and some persistent eyes up on the ramparts. But just this once, they were supposed to. Maybe that will clear up any doubts if I am _claimed ground_ or not.", he quoted her spiteful words from before with a disarming nonchalance that left her speechless. _Exasperating, marvellous man_ … She could only stare at his face, now wearing an expression that was uncharacteristically smug, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. _Outfoxed by the lion, indeed_. Not that she minded, at all. As they rode side by side, Black pulled just a nose-length ahead, wilful creature that he was, and Shenlira could not suppress a smile – like master, like mount, that saying was undoubtedly true.


	7. VII Barefoot Maiden

_See the blazing Yule before us,  
_ Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!  
 _Strike the harp and join the chorus!  
_ Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!  
 _Follow me in merry measure  
_ Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!  
 _As I tell of Yule tide treasure!_

 _Merry Christmas all! Finally got around to edit this chapter thoroughly, just in time for the holidays. It contains a bit of merriment I just had to dedicate some writing to. Have a nice holiday! :)_

 **VII. Barefoot Maiden**

* * *

 _Behind every stupid idea, there is a moron claiming pure intentions. I try to avoid such delusions. Besides, can you imagine a predicament where my dashing smile wouldn't save the day? Because I can't.  
Dorian_

* * *

On the fourth day, the one before the scheduled arrival at Halamshiral, Cullen called a halt to the procession early in the evening. Everyone needed a good night's rest and a little downtime before they faced the arduous task of appeasing nobles and averting disasters, Shenlira in particular. She'd become increasingly twitchy and nervous as they neared the Winter Palace, although she tried so hard to hide it that her face had started looking pinched.

The Inquisiton made camp on the outskirts of Chilenne, a sizeable village that prospered from the closeness to Halamshiral and the considerable trade that came with it. Tents were set up and the carts secured, horses sent for a good brushing and fine golden grain to feast on, for they had worked hard to cover the distance. Everything had to be presentable when they arrived at court and at the same time the soldiers needed to be alert, prepared for any sinister plot that might be going on during the negotiations. Especially the youngest recruits, who had a tendency to get carried away by delusions of grandeur whenever they were assigned to the Inquisitor's party directly. Therefore, Cullen dismissed them and implored the captain to make sure they would all be at their best tomorrow. He paged through some reports and talked to Harding and Felia, his two most trusted frontline scouts. Interestingly, they were both dwarves.

When he took a walk through the camp and checked once more if everything was in order, he passed clumps of soldiers sitting around campfires. There was a crackle of anticipation in the air, like the charged aura before a storm. He was a little disappointed that he didn't cross paths with either Cassandra or Leliana, much less Shenlira, until a solemn Blackwall informed him that they went to the village tavern to escape the monotone rations and have a proper meal. It sounded like a very good idea and Cullen enjoyed the short walk in the invigorating cold as he resolved to join them. Unmistakably the grandest building in the village, the tavern stood out as a tall, wide brick construction with a gilded sign in the shape of a charging bull. The sounds of a lute drifted through the closed windows, mingled with singing voices and laughter.

Inquisition soldiers had almost overrun the place, making it very crowded and boisterous inside – the owner probably rubbed his hands with glee for the profit he would make. Cullen glimpsed the Iron Bull and Varric in heated conversation, cards laid out before them. Dorian stood close by, humming to the tune of a merry tavern song that Shenlira was singing, while the bard accompanied her on the lute. Many of the soldiers joined in and Cullen even saw one bold recruit ask her to dance. The lad blushed wildly when she allowed him to spin her around once. She turned and glanced at him as she sang, smiling and winking playfully. It felt good to see that she had the opportunity for a bit of relaxation and simple enjoyment. Her habit of performing together with the tavern bard was a thing well-established at Skyhold and when his duties allowed it, he made a point to watch. Those events always had an audience and usually ended with Varric or the Bull completely drunk, extorting some love ballad from her, or in the event that she refused, chanting some bawdy tune themselves.

Cullen returned her smile and shook his head warningly with a stern stare at the recruit, who immediately fled, crestfallen. Shenlira looked as though she wanted to join him, but people seemed determined for her to go through a whole repertoire of songs – which was basically endless, and so Cullen decided not to intrude on her entertainment, instead seeking a table to sit down at. He found only one vacant place in the far corner of the packed room, where the last person he'd expected here was seated, alone. Solas caught his eye when he pushed through the people, as always with an unfathomable expression. Cullen could think of no cordial way to just turn around and leave once the man had noticed him. Somehow, the mage's measured voice managed to carry over the tavern noises.

"Commander. Please feel free to join me.", Solas said politely, pointing at a free bench opposite him. Cullen felt awkward under the elf's unnerving gaze as he sat down. "For some reason, people don't seem to be comfortable sitting with me. That chair has been empty for at least an hour, what a pity.", he remarked then.

"To be honest, I would not have expected you to be in such a crowded, noisy place. You seem more like you enjoy a quiet, midnight stroll of contemplation rather than such a… merriment.", Cullen tried to keep his voice neutral, but he realized the comment might sound sarcastic. He searched for some way to salvage the situation when Solas suddenly smiled, almost unnoticeably.

"And you would be mostly right. But sometimes I find it enjoyable to watch the people who work so hard for this cause take a small measure of gratification for themselves. It is a contagious thing. The very air is filled with their cheer.", he explained. Cullen's eyebrows went up.

"Cheer?", he asked doubtfully, to which Solas gave a tired sort of sigh.

"Ah, yes. Varric fondly calls me 'Chuckles', and Dorian asked me once if I have a stick up my… Well, you know the expression. I see why most would think I am a too serious person to be around.", he conceded without scorn.

"That doesn't offend you?", Cullen asked curiously. He knew the feeling all too well.

"Does it offend _you_? I have heard people call you similar things. You are a man of duty and I suspect there was not much room for merriment in the severe life of a templar, even one who has not seen a rebellion rise in his time, like you have.", Solas spoke with a strange hint of respect that baffled him. The elf didn't miss the way Cullen's gaze flickered to Shenlira, who had paused her singing to converse with Dorian.

"I imagine that you have no love lost for templar.", he didn't mean that in an accusing way – just voicing his surprise. Solas regarded him for a long moment before he answered.

"As before, you would be mostly right. Mostly. Magic is a part of the world just like a tree or a mountain is. To suppress it is… strangely twisted. Hard to understand for someone who has walked the Fade for many years. If magic means pulling the Fade into this world, you do the exact opposite. You make reality go steady around you, and the Fade cannot intrude upon that space. Peculiar. But forgive me, I didn't invite you here to discuss such controversial matters. Despite all that, you are not like most templar, just as Shenlira is not like most Dalish. And she speaks very highly of you.", Solas said earnestly.

Cullen didn't know how to reply to that, so he managed a thank you, in a clumsy way. He always felt inadequate around the enigmatic mage who had come from seemingly nowhere, but Cullen knew Solas had earned Shenlira's trust. She often requested him to join her party when she set out, and Cassandra reported their long discussions about elven culture as 'endless and half of it incomprehensible – but the songs are a fine distraction'.

"I'm glad to hear that.", Cullen added when his silence had lengthened.

"Indeed? Because you look rather uncomfortable than glad. I hoped to put your mind at ease. Shenlira and I spend most of our time together in lively discourse about the culture of our people. She argues the Dalish view of the world, but always in a reasonable manner and very liberally. We usually end up telling stories. She knows so many legends of the wilds, tales of the hunt, and I tell her about the things I have seen in the Fade. I have great respect for her knowledge of lore and songs – I, well, value her friendship.", Solas met his eyes directly and Cullen suddenly realized that the man was trying, in a very convoluted and discreet way, to explain to him that he had no romantic interest in Shenlira.

Two weeks ago, when he had planned the design for her white quiver, he'd happened upon her and Solas in his circular study. She'd been teaching him an elven song. Cullen had left them alone then, not wanting to impose on their private conversations – although he'd indeed been a little jealous. But if he knew one thing it was that he trusted her, and never wished to chain her down with petty jealousy. This friendship with Solas was important to her, a tie she cherished, and it had never occurred to him to limit that. Cullen wondered if the elf had noticed his presence on that day and now aimed to disperse any false suspicions he might have gotten from that scene. The attempt felt both courteous and awkward.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Solas. I didn't even assume…", his words trailed away. "But it was a nice sentiment. Thank you.", he finally said. Solas seemed to sense his discomfort and freed him by turning his thorough gaze to something else.

"It needed to be said, at least this once. Now that we cleared this obstinate issue up, I confess that I came here in hope to hear Shenlira sing one of my favourite songs. It is called _Forests I Walk, Shining Roads_ , a ballad about a hunter who seeks to escape from an enchanted forest. He is trapped there by his lover, a mage who died and turned into a spirit of woe. A sad theme… and yet so beautiful. But the mood is not right for such a song right now, maybe later in the evening.", his fingers drummed lightly to the buoyant rhythm of the current song.

"May I ask you something? You said before that Shenlira was not like most Dalish. Could you explain to me how?", Cullen accepted a mug of ale from the maid, who filled Solas' empty cup from a carafe of wine.

"You are digging your own grave by asking me about the Dalish, Commander.", Solas barked a very un-elf-like laugh.

"Just Cullen.", he corrected the other man, who nodded, an almost companionable look in his eyes.

"Cullen, then… The first thing you have to know about the Dalish is that their vast majority does not care for humans, or any other race for that matter, often to the point that you'd be attacked on sight if you trespass on their camp sites. They hoard their secrets and all they think they know about their own culture jealously, while carefully cultivating elven superiority and narrow-minded faith.", he shook his head in a gesture of disappointment. "The clan Shenlira comes from, Lavellan, is different in the sense that they don't share the animosity against humans, are even open to trade and studying human culture, politics… This is mostly facilitated by Keeper Deshanna, a woman of wisdom and their leader. Also by Faleera, the Alaslin who preceded Shenlira – I heard she was a force to be reckoned with. But the current Alaslin Lavellan – Inquisitor will never sound less strange to me -, she is different still. Where the Dalish are narrow-minded, she is open to profound views, where they are antagonistic, she is tolerant and kind. She believes things gone wrong deserve a chance to be made right, and she doesn't care if you are human, dwarven or Qunari. There is a deep presence of mind in such an attitude. Yet… I fear that her clan might be ostracized from the whole of the Dalish exactly because of those views. Free spirits always walk precarious paths."

That, they do, Cullen agreed whole-heartedly. This was the longest he had heard the mage speak in one sitting and the insight Solas' explanation brought was a valuable thing. He wanted to inquire about the problems caused by Shenlira's 'free spirit', but another voice interrupted.

"Andraste's tits, here are the two dreariest people I know, come together at last. Everyone takes a split from duty to relax, and you two have nothing better to do than discuss elven politics and paint gloomy pictures.", said Varric, shaking his head in discontent. They had been so immersed in their conversation that they had not noticed the dwarf's approach.

"Tethras, colourful greeting as always. Not that it would interest you, but Cullen asked me about Dalish culture. I was merely…", Solas began, but Varric finished his sentence for him.

"You were merely launching into one of your famous monologues to an unsuspecting Commander. Everyone knows you don't ask Chuckles about the Dalish. Your handsome blonde head will turn grey before you hear the end of it." Solas made a sound of disdain to this, but his gaze was distinctly flickering with amusement. Cullen knew that the two were simply needling each other about personality quirks, neither would ever cross the lines to cruelty or real insult.

"Can I help you with something, Varric?", he inquired with a bit of a drawl and was immediately suspicious when the dwarf started grinning.

"Ah, now I remember why I came over here. I took the liberty of requesting a song in your name, Cullen.", Varric stated matter-of-factly. _Oh no…_

"What?!", Cullen exclaimed, aghast, "Which one?" He had a very bad feeling this would not end well for his reputation. And he was proven right.

"The _Barefoot Maiden_." The Commander went pale and his face fell when he heard that title. Solas, who was unfamiliar with the song, looked at both of them blankly.

"Let me explain, Chuckles.", Varric said in the voice of a great story-teller, while the bard announced the song and strummed her lute. "The _Barefoot Maiden_ has a long history in Cullen's homeland. No wedding is held without playing it at least once. When it's played, every man of red Ferelden blood is compelled to ask his sweetheart to dance. If he fails to do so before the first verse is sung, she is free to choose a different partner, and that is considered very bad luck, for who would choose a man who made his sweetheart wait?" He paused dramatically as Cullen gave a defeated groan, then spoke again toward Solas. "The Commander is a man of reputation. Honour demands that he adheres to the tradition, unless he wishes to leave the dancing to one of the recruits…", the words were left unfinished meaningfully. The first tunes began to play and Cullen squared his shoulders, knowing that he had been very smartly hoodwinked. He stood and sought Shenlira's dark red mane, but not before giving Varric a withering stare.

"Excuse me. I'll make sure they feed your pony a cleansing potion for this. Well played, Tethras." They watched him walk away and Solas shook his head in disbelief.

"You are some overbearing dwarf, do you know that? To meddle in their affairs like that.", the elf mused, but Varric was unfazed, even snorted dismissively.

"They deserve a little fun in all this shit and they are too dutiful to take it on their own. You know it. Besides, remind me again who helped him design the white quiver?", the other man queried in an innocent tone.

"A point taken, friend.", Solas conceded solemnly.

* * *

Shenlira was awed by Dorian telling her the story how he'd scandalized a Tevinter noble woman and had gotten escorted off the premises for it when she noticed the two recruits hovering close by. Curiously, she turned to face them and identified one as the young man Cullen had reprimanded some weeks ago – Marten was his name. The other was unfamiliar, but they were both shifting on their feet like nervous yearlings and looking at her dreamily. The bard had struck up a melody brimming with vim, and she thought she had heard it before, but the memory was hazy…

"Oh, look. You have two puppies with stomach-aches following you. They would be cute if they didn't look like they might wet themselves at any minute.", Dorian remarked to her under his breath.

"Dorian!", Shenlira chided him. At that moment, Marten seemed to find his courage to speak.

"Your Worship, we… ah, were wondering if… That is, if you would…", he swallowed as though he had something stuck in his throat, "Could we have this dance? One of us, I mean-", but then suddenly his eyes went wide with shock.

"Only in your wildest dreams, young Marten.", this was Cullen's voice from behind her, a sort of well-meant rebuke ringing in it. Shenlira turned to see his tall figure close in on them. He gave her a warm smile, before his expression changed to one of harsh command he liked to use when young soldiers did some stupidly reckless thing. "Where are your manners, asking another's sweetheart to dance the _Barefoot Maiden_ before the first verse? Find somewhere else to be.", he warned them thoroughly.

"S…Sir.", they both went rigid and almost tripped over themselves in their hurry to flee.

"Cullen! Did you have to be so strict with them?", Shenlira reproached him, her smooth brow furrowed. "And what's this about a Barefoot Maiden?" Cullen smiled again and she was momentarily side-tracked by the realization that he still managed to make her lose her train of thought sometimes.

"First of all… May I have this dance, my lady?", he held out his hand and bowed courteously, baffling her into silence. Merriment danced in his dark eyes as they surveyed the stunned look on her face. Finally, she nodded, mystified. He pulled her close and began to move in the lively rhythm of the song, one hand settling at the small of her back and guiding her with subtle pressure. It took a few moments until her surprise faded and she eased into it, skipping and bouncing, letting him twirl her around. Others joined the dance and the bard's voice lifted vivaciously, singing about a maiden whose boots were so worn she had to walk barefoot in the cold, until a brave warrior gave her new ones – gaining her favour with his kindness. The tune lilted playfully and all of a sudden, Shenlira's feet lost solid ground as Cullen lifted her high into the air, spinning her around in a full circle. She saw the whole tavern in a whirl of colour and a swooping giddiness in her stomach made her laugh with exhilaration. He set her on her feet again and she felt his uncontained joy when his lips brushed over her cheek fleetingly. _You claim to be dull, and yet nothing could be farther from the truth, Sajnalin…,_ she mused silently.

"Is this finally a song I know and you don't? The _Barefoot Maiden_ is an old Ferelden tradition. A man has to dance with his sweetheart to it, or suffer insult to his honour.", he said in a muted voice at her ear. For the whole length of the dance, Shenlira forgot the crowded tavern around them and simply revelled in the verve of his steps, the perfect synergy between lute and bard's voice that created the magic of music, and the sharing of such a simple enjoyment with the man of her heart. She wished it would never end and felt a peculiar sadness when it did. But the smile lingered on Cullen's face and that cheered her considerably. His obvious happiness caused her to experience a rush of childish glee.

"I thought you didn't dance.", she pointed out, a little out of breath from the vigorous exertion. He kept one gloved hand at the small of her back as he led her a little apart from the crowd.

"Usually, I don't. I make an exception for you, though. You are my sweetheart and it is tradition. Besides, I could not leave you to the pups. What would that do to my reputation?", he sounded distinctly amused and Shenlira's brows shot up in surprise.

"Your reputation is flawless, Sajnalin.", she argued, misunderstanding him.

"Not my military reputation, Lira.", he dropped his voice and saw a rosy tint creep to her face, her grey eyes widening. That he could fluster a woman who faced down dragons was so endearing, he had to battle the urge to kiss her in front of the whole tavern. _Ah, why resist?_ _What harm could it do?_ , he thought. It would be walking a slippery slope – he never quite knew if he'd manage to stop once he'd started.

"Cullen." _By the Maker's eternal damnation!_ , he wanted to curse at the voice that detained him at that exact moment. As always, Leliana moved silently and unseen, even in a well-lit tavern full of people. Cullen and Shenlira both snapped out of their revelry and turned when she approached. "I'm sorry to disturb your reprieve, but I had an important scout report I wanted to discuss with you." He gave a defeated sigh.

"Now?", he couldn't quite hide the note of frustration in his tone.

"I'm afraid it can't wait, but it shouldn't take longer than an hour or two. Oh, no, not you.", Leliana stopped her when Shenlira straightened into alertness. She gave the spymaster a baffled look. "Most of us will have at least some downtime during the ball itself, but I doubt you will. You should really take a breather as long as it's possible. Tomorrow you need all your strength. We'll handle this quickly." Shenlira's expression was a mix of disappointment and gratitude. She did not want him to leave, but knew that he had to. Cullen leaned in and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

"I'll find you later.", he whispered apologetically, before he left and followed Leliana to the tavern exit.

* * *

The spymaster had been liberal when she'd spoken the words 'an hour' and 'quickly'. They discussed a troubling report of villagers sighting strange people on their settlement outskirts. The scouts said some of them even claimed to recognize the emblem on their armor, a crimson skyward sword, burning. Red templar, so close to Halamshiral? That couldn't be, it must be a mistake, but if it wasn't, they had to be prepared for the possibility. Somewhere around midnight, Leliana had mercy and finally let him go. Cullen stepped from the tent and stretched to disperse the tension in his neck and shoulders. He was surprised to find Varric waiting for him outside, an almost abashed look on his face – which was novelty, since the man seldom knew shame about anything.

"We may have done something… stupid. I think we need your help, even though I'd like to skip the lecture that will come with it as surely as the sun rises in the morning…", the dwarf said, making Cullen frown. That didn't bode well.

"What is it?", he demanded curtly. Varric exhaled and instead of answering, motioned him to follow. Cullen obeyed and they walked to the edge of the camp, back towards the village, where the tavern merriment was still in progress, even though people were slowly starting to retreat to their beds. Varric took a turn then, leading him down a narrow pathway to the back of the building. Pitiful moans were coming from the direction they headed, reminding him of sounds a wounded animal made when caught in a snare. They mingled with muted, apologetic voices. Cullen and Varric rounded the corner to find Dorian standing a little way apart, while the broad silhouette of the Bull watched over a miserable heap of a person on the ground. Shenlira was draped over the stump of a tree, half-sitting, her wild hair an utter mess around her, head swaying. She looked like a drenched cloak hung up to dry. Solas kneeled beside her, his hand placed soothingly on her back. Cullen stopped short.

"What in the Maker's name goes on here?!", he demanded of nobody in particular, horrified.

"It's not as bad as it looks. She's just drunk. Well, foxed out of her wits is probably a better assessment.", Dorian answered him. Shenlira made a pathetic noise, an unsettling sound that usually preceded retching. Solas threw him a meaningful look.

"I don't know what these dimwits gave her, but our kind usually is not susceptible to this sort of… inebriation. Whatever it was hit her hard. She's insensible.", the elf explained when Cullen briskly closed in and kneeled on her other side.

"What a rude thing to say!", this from Shenlira, her voice slurred and cut short by a hiccup, mistaking the comment as an insult. Cullen took off his gloves and brushed the locks away from her face, which was pale with an unhealthy greenish tint. Her head rested on one arm, deep crinkles around her eyes as she squeezed them shut tightly.

"You poisoned me! And after we have slain dragons together! Oh, the betrayal!", she lamented out of nowhere, "Everything… is spinning… Where's Sh… Saj… Cullen. That other word is too hard."

"I'm right here.", he tried to reassure her, but she didn't react, groaning again. "What on earth did you give her?", Cullen asked in outrage.

"Bess'dracis. Qunari Dragon Fire. Ah, Boss, it'll be alright. You just need a good long nap and some strong black tea in the morning.", the Iron Bull answered, his tone apologetic.

"It's a wonder she's still conscious at all. I drank Bess'dracis once and it laid me flat on my back for two days.", Varric commented from the side-lines. Cullen glared at him and he fell silent. _The fools_.

"Why did you even get her drunk in the first place? She never drinks any liquor other than spiced wine, you idiots." The companions at least had the decency to look contrite.

"We thought it would relax her. She's been more clamped-up about the ball than an orleisian noble maiden on her wedding night. Ah, wait… That metaphor just went somewhere terrible.", this from Dorian.

"Certainly, because you believe all the world's problems can be solved by drinking until senseless.", Solas interjected in a scathing voice.

"Stop fighting, you guys. I hate it when you fight. Juss leave me here to my m… misery and get Cullen…", Shenlira spoke again with a longing undertone. He leaned in close and laid a hand to her nape, exciting a sort of pressure she'd once shown him calmed animals in distress.

"I'm already here, Lira. Look at me.", he cajoled. She did open one eye, just a small grey slit that regarded him balefully. Then a relieved sort of sigh rose from her. The taut muscles relaxed a bit beneath his touch.

"She refused to move until we fetched you… Stubborn woman. I doubt she'll move now.", Varric explained, but as if to contradict him out of spite, Shenlira lifted heavily from the stump and shook her head as though trying to clear her vision. She swayed for a moment and he used the opportunity to pull her against his solid chest.

"Oh… I thought I smelled something good." She inhaled audibly and Cullen itched to punch Dorian for his barely suppressed laugh. "Cullen… tell these guys I'm not mad at them, they keep apologizing. It's… psh… annoying.", here she paused for a moment and added, in an unmistakably sultry voice, "And then take me to bed, _vhenan_." _To bed._ Clearly, she was too intoxicated to know what she was saying, but the comment carried such an obvious meaning that he felt his face burn and the breath caught in his throat. Thoroughly embarrassed now, he heard Varric cough politely and the Bull let out a low whistle. Dorian snickered. Cullen would have happily pummelled them all. The only one who kept a straight face was Solas, throwing him a look of compassion as he let his hand hover over Shenlira. He invoked some sort of magic, although it felt so unusual that Cullen could not place its purpose. Whatever it was, it made her relax and her head lolled a little before she went quite limp in his arms.

"This should help with the nausea.", the mage said quietly. "I look forward to seeing your vengeance on them about this."

"Well, now I can say I have seen everything. Magister aspiring to godhood, archdemon from hell… Blushing Commander…", Dorian commented and Cullen couldn't hold back an angry growl at the jibe. Its effect was completely thwarted by Shenlira's sudden giggle.

"You should probably heed her wish and… take her to bed. To sleep.", Solas managed to say in a serious tone. He thanked the elf earnestly and did as suggested, picking Shenlira up from the ground. The Bull made little move as if to help him, nedlessly. She didn't protest and her weight was neglectable.

"Will you manage her on your own?", the Qunari still seemed compelled to ask. Cullen nodded grudgingly.

"It's fine. I know you care about her welfare, but every time you try to 'help' I seem to end up neck-deep in the collateral damage of your so-called 'good will'. A little warning, perhaps, the next time you plan such charity?", he grumbled in a sullen tone, and the Bull let out a booming laugh.

"You're all right, Cullen. She'll be fine, you'll see. She's a lot tougher than she looks.", the other man gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder that nearly levelled him to the ground and then turned away. "Dorian! Tell me again about that Tevinter lecher who liked women to spank his a-"

"Bull, shut your filthy trap! You're in the presence of a lady!", the mage interrupted him, but he was only half-serious. As they walked back to the tavern together, Cullen heard the Qunari bark another laugh.

"Oh, she can't hear me. The Boss is too busy sniffing Cullen, probably dreaming up her own lewd story…"

"Maker help me.", the Commander whispered under his breath, gifting Varric with a scowl and Solas with a respectful nod before he walked off towards the camp, Shenlira in his arms. She burrowed closer to him and since he'd shed the armour before the tavern visit, he felt her warmth and softness even more intensely. Her face nuzzled to the hollow of his throat, a hot rush of breath tickling along his skin. Somehow that small, intimate gesture brimmed with sensuality, making him shudder.

"How can you smell this good after four days of riding and travel?", Shenlira wondered absent-mindedly. Cullen swallowed hard. One of her small hands was bunched up in the fabric of his tunic as though she needed the grip to keep her grounded. He suspected the world was still spinning around her.

"I make a point to wash in a stream or pond every morning, or if possible at a tavern.", he explained, concentrating on the shadowed path before them. Then his tone turned worried, "Oh my Lira, what did they do to you? Have you ever even been drunk before? Do you feel like being sick? Dizzy?"

"Too many questions! Don't be mad at them, please? I agreed to it so… it was my fault…", Shenlira sighed in a tired sort of way before a hiccup interrupted her. "'S fine… I think. But so weird! Why do people even want this? I couldn't aim a bow to save my life right now. Ssh, did you hear that?", she rambled, but Cullen had not heard a thing, pretty certain it was all in her inebriated head. "Oh you know that sound! Sssshhhhshhhsss.", she went on, copying it with unusual prowess.

"The bushes where you bathe must be rustling all the time, crowded with women hiding to take a peek at your firm b-"

"Lira!", he hushed her before she could finish that thought, utterly mortified, for they had just passed the edge of the camp into earshot of Scout Harding. The dwarven woman had overheard Shenlira's comment and regarded the strange scene of their arrival with unveiled puzzlement. Cullen gave her a look that begged her not to ask, which she answered by discreetly turning the other way. It didn't take long to find the Inquisitor's tent, its canvas as always marked with colourful stitching.

"Why does the issue of other women keep coming up from you? I don't even notice and you know I don't care about their attentions." Cullen entered the tent silently after making sure nobody saw them, not wanting to attract any curious gazes. Someone had left a lantern burning and a peculiar pan with smokeless, glowing embers warmed the inside against the chill of the night. Something magically imbued, he suspected, templar senses tingling. A makeshift bed of thick blankets had been set for Shenlira, some few personal items gathered around it. There was an intricate chest too, its top serving as depot for reports, missives and other correspondence. One lone chair stood beside it. Bow and quiver had been laid onto her meticulously folded leather armour next to the pillows. He had not expected any reply to his last remark, but when he settled her down onto the blankets, she heaved a sigh that somehow felt like she was trying to tell him that he should know better by now.

"Of course you don't notice. Ah, I'm just teasing you, _vhenan_ , and you make it too easy. You know neither vanity nor selfishness. It is one of the most wonderful things about you.", she spoke those words clearly, almost as if sober, but couldn't seem to refrain from adding in a nasty undertone, "The bush-women on the other hand… They simply like looking at your face." Then she suddenly let out a breath as if admitting some grave weakness. "Between you and me, I can't blame them. It's such a handsome face." Shenlira flashed him an angelic smile that momentarily rendered him speechless. He shook his head in disbelief and found his voice again.

"You're drunk, woman. You should be babbling incoherently, not saying things that make me want to kiss you and not stop.", he chided her. The words called her to alertness and while he peeled the jacket off her, she tried to distract him by stretching for his lips every chance she got. It was both delightful and vexing, for he had a very hard time readying her for sleep like this.

"Why don't you? You can't make claims like that and leave them unproven!", Shenlira taunted him playfully, but when he left her chemise untouched and pulled her nightshirt from the chest, she made a sound of disappointment. "Wait, you want to put clothes _on_ me? Disgraceful!" _Oh, if you had any idea, alluring creature…_ If she knew how he had to fight the temptation of her closeness, her warm, fragrant skin, her lush quirky lips, every step of the way – she'd have eaten her words. His jaw felt stiff from clenching it for too long, and certain other parts of his body disobeyed his command completely, springing to life with eager anticipation. _Get a hold of yourself!_ Cullen draped the shirt over her head dutifully and lifted her wayward hair from beneath the collar. She pouted at him, invinting and coquettish. Decent sense made an attempt to exit, and he barely kept it from doing so.

"Don't tempt me, Lira. It's already hard enough, believe me. But I would be taking advantage of your intoxicated state and that would be dishonourable.", he argued gently. Yet he couldn't stop himself from giving her an affectionate kiss, keeping a tight leash of control. Of course, Shenlira made it anything but easy, leaning into the touch passionately, with no reservations, until he had to pull away lest he forget himself. After the moment it took to collect his wits, he smiled faintly.

"Besides… I doubt that Bess'dracis will let you remember most of this night. You would miss out on all the interesting parts.", he said this in a tantalizing voice that held a wicked promise. At least a little pay-back for the sweet torture he endured for several weeks now. Although he couldn't rightly blame her for his own wicked thoughts… Shenlira eyed him with a distinctly intrigued expression, but after a long moment of contemplation, she bent her head and concurred.

"Ah, I don't like it when you're right.", she teased even so. Cullen watched her lids flutter for a moment and knew that despite their flirtatious banter, she wasn't in a good state. Solas may have dampened the nausea with his spell, but the effect of the strong spirit was still rampaging around in her mind and body. She looked paler than usual, her clear, intelligent eyes glazed. He imagined the world was still spiralling out of focus around her. She needed to sleep it off. But even so, he wheedled her to drink a whole cup of water against the headache that was sure to come and even managed to make her eat a little bread. Afterwards, she leaned back into the pillows with a massive yawn and he pulled the blankets closely around her.

Suddenly, her slender hand came up and closed around his urgently, as though she was afraid he would disappear. She met his eyes and the look she gave him was one of trepidation, of woe laid bare.

"Don't leave me.", she spoke in a heart-breaking voice _. I never would, why do you even think such a thing?!_ , Cullen wanted to tell her. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes and he had to swallow down the knot that formed in his throat at the sight. Although the sudden instability of emotion was likely amplified by her intoxication, he understood then how much she truly dreaded the things to come. Gathering Shenlira to his side, he gently wiped the few stray tears from her cheeks, let his fingers tangle into her hair and held her close while he assured her of course, he won't leave.

"I can't fail. I can't. Not tomorrow, not ever. Too much is at stake.", she whispered and he rocked her softly as one would soothe a frightened child.

"You won't. You came so far, it will be alright. Oh, don't cry, Lira… Maker, I can't bear it." It took some time, but he kept murmuring to her, sensing that it didn't even much matter what he said. She just wanted the comforting timbre of his voice, slowly calming at its deep resonance, face slack in an expression of ancient weariness. Her eyes fell shut and she sighed, close to falling asleep but not quite there yet. So Cullen started telling her a story, knowing how she loved listening to tales about his time before the Inquisition.

There had once been a notorious thief in Kirkwall by the name of Smiling Eldon – he'd gotten that name because of the grinning fox mask he wore to hide his face. At the same time, Marla, one of the younger Kirkwall Circle mages, started wandering off on her own and eluding templar supervision every chance she got. The Knight-Commander was very suspicious, thinking the two incidents might be linked, since Eldon's more extravagant coups, like the stealing of a giant landscape painting from noble-man's residence in Hightown, reeked of magical involvement. Cullen and one of his templar brothers were assigned to investigate both events. The most unusual task he'd ever gotten – templars did not normally scour dark alleys in plain clothing, blades concealed, trying to catch a thief in the act.

Many times, they followed Marla in the hope to find Eldon, or, more outrageous yet, maybe find that Marla _was_ Eldon. One night, they got lucky, or the young mage apprentice had simply gotten careless. They happened upon her – and Eldon – on the third floor of a tavern in a very compromising position, the whole room clouded in a gaudy illusion spell. It turned out they were lovers and Eldon an undiscovered mage. His abilities were so subtle and unique, the Circle had not noticed his existence and so he'd never been trained. Smiling Eldon was an illusionist of such calibre, he could even fool templars – for a little while.

A heated pursuit ensued that rivalled Varric's novels of Hard in Hightown. They caught him, eventually, and brought him to the Circle without the need for violence. After being examined by the healers and Chantry priests, it became known that his thievery wasn't even voluntary, but a compulsion he couldn't seem to fight, created by some sort of childhood trauma.

Halfway through the story, Shenlira had started smiling in her light snooze. She listened with rapt attention as long as she managed, but Cullen's soothing voice was like a very insistent lullaby, and so she felt herself be pulled over the edge of sleep, enclosed in his arms, surrounded by a sense of utter safety. Her fingers, so tightly holding on before, went limp around his and her breathing deepened. He refrained from telling her that both Eldon and Marla disappeared during the first days of the rebellion, their fates after that unknown. It was a sad ending that made him, once more, realize how this war had torn so many lives apart, and telling her would only cause her even more distress. Cullen straightened and sighed, when he suddenly felt the presence of someone else in the tent. Scout Harding stood at the entrance, holding an assortment of items, including his templar sword, cloak and one of his own blankets.

"Sir – Forgive me, I… didn't mean to pry, just thought you'd… like to have your personal things. I assumed you might not return to your tent for them.", the dwarf kept her voice low as she spoke, awkwardly shifting on her feet.

"Bold move, Harding. But you were right. I appreciate it.", Cullen answered quietly. Harding arranged his belongings around the room with swift precision. Shenlira tossed and turned restlessly in her sleep, as though she couldn't find a comfortable position. He frowned, wondering how he could put her at ease further. Was she always this agitated during the nights? No wonder she looked exhausted most of the time… His lips pressed into a firm line.

"The winter ram.", the scout suddenly said. Seeing the confused look on the Commander's face, she pointed at a white patch set close to the pillows. Cullen picked it up. _A pelt?_ It was soft and dense and remarkably well-preserved, like touching the fur of a living thing. When he gave it to Shenlira to hold, her hand immediately buried in the thick fur and she curled it to her chest instinctively, going still.

"In the field, she sleeps better holding that. I don't know why… But once, she forgot to bring it to the Coast, and the surliness in the mornings was disconcerting…", Harding remarked further, dumbstruck when the Commander smiled, as if to some private joke. It was a side of him she'd never suspected, a side reserved for the person he kept his keen vigil over. She couldn't have felt more intrusive if she'd barged in on them embracing passionately.

"I imagine if you touched a young wolf's pelt, they would feel exactly alike.", Cullen said, drawing the blanket up to Shenlira's shoulders. He threw Harding a quick glance that told her she was forgiven for her brazenness of intruding, before he returned his attention to the sleeping woman.

"Thank you, Harding.", he told her with a polite finality, and the scout, having worked with the Commander for many weeks by now, knew herself to be dismissed. As she turned to leave, she heard Shenlira draw a shivering breath.

"Cub…", she whispered longingly, and Cullen answered her in a soft voice.

"Run with your wolf in your dreams tonight, Lira. I will watch over you both."

* * *

Shenlira woke with a parched mouth and drilling headache the next morning, knowing two things: First, never ever to accept any sort of beverage from either Dorian or the Bull. Second, and this came slowly, just as hazy memories of the night before came back to her in shreds: She loved Cullen. It wasn't unexpected, more like an inevitable thing, after all they had shared with each other. But when she looked at him sitting on the lone chair in the lightening darkness of the tent, his head leaned onto one hand, the lines of his face softened by sleep, she felt for the first time the inexplicable urge to blurt this out to him. He had carried her to the tent so gently and taken care of her although she must have been terribly annoying… Bits of her embarrassing behaviour flashed across her mind and the pounding in her head intensified. _No, now is definitely not the right time to tell him_. Not while a flock of woodpeckers hammered away at her eyesockets. The pain made her groan – Cullen was instantly awake and by her side with a cup of water that she gulped down thirstily.

It took several hours until she had gathered her senses sufficiently to conduct a coherent conversation with anyone. That they had to break camp early to reach the Winter Palace with a little time to spare made things no more helpful, at all. Riding had never made her feel nauseated, and now was the worst time for that to start.

Yet, the companions who had brought about this unfortunate event seemed to be plagued by guilt and therefore assisted her any way they could. Varric brewed some dwarven herbal tea that dampened the headache and Dorian invigorated her with a magic spell that was perhaps a little strong, since her legs kept constantly twitching for action, making Ash nervous. The Bull insisted on letting her hit him with a stick, but she refused vigorously and instead accepted his sincere promise never to mention Bess'dracis or any embarrassing thing she had blurted out in her intoxicated state ever again. Cullen did not speak much during these last hours of the ride as Halamshiral slowly drew nearer in the distance, but Shenlira felt his watchful gaze like a comforting cloak. Still, he seemed in deep thought, and she wondered if she had said or done something stupid during the night. It was all a blur. He'd carried her to her tent, then a lengthy blank spot, then only hazy pieces and… a story about a mage thief in Kirkwall? Was that right? _Damn it all._ As through the greater part of the journey, they rode side by side silently while she contemplated the dire consequences of drinking. Knowing that upon their arrival, there wouldn't be time for a private talk for a good while, she cleared her throat and turned to him.

"Cullen…", she began tentatively, but it seemed he chose that exact moment to speak to her himself.

"Did you dream of wolves last night?", he suddenly asked. Such a question completely out of context baffled her. More unexpected still was that she'd had a dream about wolves. "I gave you the white ram fur to hold… Although I don't take credit for the idea, because Harding told me to. It reminds you of Cub, doesn't it?", Cullen elaborated. Shenlira hadn't thought that anyone had noticed this childlike habit and she felt a little abashed.

"In the wilderness, during long journeys, we used to huddle together in the night for warmth. For the better part of a decade I slept with my hand on his neck. There's this whirl of elaborate guard hairs, and then the thick fur covering it. I got so used to it…" Her throat suddenly constricted and she stopped short. She didn't know which emotions her face showed then, but Cullen's voice was soft beside her, his gaze honest, kind.

"I know you miss him... Why not have him brought to Skyhold? We'll just get rid of the dogs… And maybe the chickens need a sturdy pen.", he tried to lighten her mood, not having intended to sadden her.

"I… I'd like that… But then my father would be all alone. Ah, I don't know.", she sounded at odds with herself.

"We are making good progress in the Western Approach. After we finish this arduous noble's gathering and clear the Venatori stronghold, you should take some time and visit the clan.", he suggested.

"I don't know… Dorian and Solas are worried about strange magic in the Still Ruins… I might have to make more trips…", she contemplated, but he threw her an imploring look.

"Alright, Sajnalin. It is likely useless to argue with you. And maybe you have a point. Would you accompany me if I visit my clan?", she conceded, saying the last in a hopeful undertone. The invitation caught him off guard and he found Shenlira looking at him expectantly.

"Of course, Lira. I hadn't thought… I mean… If that is what you wish, I'll make the time." This seemed to considerably lighten her mood, and she even began humming the melody of the _Barefoot Maiden_ as they rode. Only too soon, the hill sloped upwards and on it, the gates of Halamshiral loomed before their procession. The Winter Palace rose above the city like a gleaming sentinel in golden armour, set aflame by the afternoon sun. Shenlira felt trepidation rise inside her as water bubbling forth from a spring and she hoped very much that all the hours of hard work and studying court etiquette would help her not to get torn to pieces by the Orlais elite. It wouldn't have been the first time somebody lost their head in the great Game.


	8. VIII Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

_Happy New Year everyone! :)  
And as luck has it, it's a time of important events for our two lovebirds, hrhr. So this is one of the chapters responsible for the M rating. I do not write terribly explicit stuff, I like to embellish and circumscribe things, and this first intimate scene is made to be romantic and heartfelt. (There are still some different ones to come later on, though :3) After all, the real story is just getting started... _

_Thank you for your favs and follows, every time I get a new one I take up editing again with a passion!_

* * *

 **VIII. Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts**

 _Everybody needs is a little push in the right direction now and then. What is life without a bit of whimsy? Often, that tiny flicker of courage is enough so they will follow their fickle hearts.  
Leliana_

* * *

To call it an arduous night would have been a monumental understatement. Shenlira figured the ball had been the longest evening of her life, and it had seemed like it would never end. For hours, she circulated between the highest-ranking nobles of the nation in a formal festival gown so tightly laced, it made her wonder how the women did not faint from lack of air. Maybe a general state of discomfort was en vogue among society's finest. Josephine's tireless counselling bore fruits, for she managed not to disgrace herself. _Call me a 'savage elf' again_ , she thought fiercely each time someone looked askance at her.

Dark secrets and convoluted schemes dwelled everywhere inside the Winter Palace, all hidden behind masks of courtesy and elusiveness. The actual masks were almost impossible to get used to, since they created an even stronger sense of true intentions being concealed. Shenlira eavesdropped on countless whispered conversations to report interesting titbits back to Leliana, who uncannily used them as leverage in their favour. She spoke to each faction participating in the peace talks and found that every major player hid some shocking intrigue behind their polite façade. Duke Gaspard had infiltrated the Palace with mercenaries and planned a coup against Celene, while Briala, her former lover, had overtaken the place by stealth, carefully filling the servant ranks with her own people. Not trusting either of them, Shenlira painstakingly searched for the truth beneath all the layers of sinister plots and powerplay, often leaving the festivities for short periods to sneak into forbidden palace wings.

That, at least, was something she knew how to do. Picking locks to find hidden studies or personal safes, she slowly uncovered the bigger picture behind the gilded curtains. The Empress had kept an elven locket from Briala, a sentimental token that helped the Inquisitor reconcile the two of them in the end. She kicked a Venatori Harlequin out a high window and got into a skirmish with more than a few others during her secret journeys off limits. In the end, the true mastermind behind the assassination was neither Gaspard nor Briala, but the Grand Duchess Florianne, acting under Corypheus' orders. Shenlira even had to close a rift in the middle of the palace gardens. Odd, a complete novelty, to fight demons between fountains and decorative hedges. Thankfully, Varric, Cassandra and Solas were quite adaptive and none of her companions got hurt in the attack. The palace inventory wasn't that lucky, but that couldn't be helped. Finally back in the grand ballroom, she exposed the Grand Duchess before the woman could murder Celene and humbly received the royal gratitude of the Empress – and her promise of a strong alliance.

It took some time for the realization to sink in. _I can't believe I've made it through, and without starting a war_ – those were her musings when she was approached by Morrigan, after fleeing the crowd for a second of privacy. The occult advisor to the Empress informed Shenlira that she would be travelling back to Skyhold with the Inquisition and stand ready to help her against Corypheus. Morrigan's knowledge of the arcane was vast and dangerous, but she would be a valuable ally. Then, Cullen had found her hideout.

With a slight smile, Shenlira remembered how he'd been beleaguered by a cluster of noblewomen all through the ball, looking discomfited by the attention. Whenever she'd passed by, they were trying to flirt with him or coax him to dance, up to the point that she remarked his following with amusement. No wonder they pursued him, though. Here, beneath the gleaming light of crystal chandeliers, he'd looked like some prince of legend who might have just walked out of an elegant painting. The black and intricate silver of his ceremonial garb, tied with a scarlet sash around his waist, had drawn even more attention to his formidable physique and noble face. Every time he'd looked at her instead of the hauntingly beautiful, royally dressed women around him, she'd felt a fierce, almost gleeful delight. _That's right, ladies. Flutter the eyelashes all you want, it's futile._ Although Cullen had declined her first dance request mechanically, later when they were alone on the balcony, he'd asked her to dance after all. And just as during the Barefoot Maiden, Shenlira had accepted with a mystified expression. That small romantic moment had made all the hard efforts of the evening worthwhile.

Now she had retired to her quarters and gone through the events of the ball with a beaming Josephine who didn't seem tired at all, rather eager to launch right into the next feast.

"You have shown remarkable skill at the Game today. And after you were so anxious to do something wrong, Shenlira – Oh, I am positively exuberant!", the ambassador jotted some florid letters onto parchment and swayed rhythmically on the spot.

"I can see that, Josie. My eternal thanks to you, for all your counsel.", Shenlira remarked with a tired smile. "How you endure this peacocking every day and even find your calling in it… It's beyond me. I shall be glad when we return to Skyhold, its mountains and pine forest. It's too… bright and loud here, all the time. I can't even hear my own thoughts." Josephine gave her a sympathetic look.

"And we will be on our way tomorrow when the formalities have been concluded. But for now, enjoy spending a night in lavish luxury, my friend. Nothing quite compares to sleeping on royal sheets!", she said this with a strange hint of double entendre that made Shenlira wonder what she meant.

"Wait, Josie. The maids have all been dismissed for today, and this gown feels like a torture device by now. Could you help me untie the laces?", she interjected when Josephine picked up her reports and turned to leave.

"No.", the ambassador's reticent refusal was met by utter bewilderment from Shenlira.

"No? Just no? Why not?" Eyebrows raised, her hand hovered at the back of her neck, holding her hair up. She had not expected to be so decisively denied. Josephine smiled faintly.

"Because I'm neither tall nor blonde nor dashing. Cullen might object to me snatching that particular task from him…" Suggestively, those words hung in the air until their effect took hold. And it well did. Shenlira suddenly flushed scarlet like a blatantly painted signpost.

"What? He… I think… he already retired to his quarters, hasn't he?", but at the smug look on her ambassador's face, Shenlira had a distinct suspicion.

"His quarters? I believe there has been a mistake somewhere in the planning. Logistics, you know. Someone seems to have, eh, omitted to secure him quarters. If he doesn't want to sleep wedged between two soldiers in the barracks, he will find his way here in a bit…", Josephine said with an air of innocence.

"Omitted to?! How can you forget to assign the general of our army a place to sleep?! That is… You…", Shenlira seemed at a loss for words, stuttering nervously and pacing around in a circle. "You planned this!", she finally accused Josephine, who, try as she might, could not take it seriously.

"I'm sorry, Inquisitor. If this is something you do not wish for, I can tell him myself-", but Shenlira made a sound that somehow managed to be both irritated and amused.

"You must be the most brazen, overweening ambassador anyone has ever had! Oh, don't look so smug! Just… gods, just keep this private, please." She went from ferocity to begging in a matter of seconds. Josephine's face turned instantly sombre.

"Shenlira… Only Leliana and I were involved in the subterfuge. Between us, we can fool anyone. He will simply be diverted from one instance to another until Leliana will point him here. We just couldn't resist hoodwinking him a little, after he keeps lecturing us all the time at the war table. And, you know… These kinds of occasions leave quite the magic in the air, don't they?", the woman gave her a sassy wink. "Good night, my lady." And with that she left Shenlira alone with very colourful thoughts and a sense of girlish nervousness, all intention to sleep having disappeared at the knowledge that she would soon be alone with Cullen, for the rest of the night.

* * *

The object of her ruminations, on the other hand, spent the better part of an hour being sent from here to there as he searched for his appointed quarters, but nobody seemed to know where those were supposed to be. Cullen began to suspect another clever scheme by one of the overbearing people who called themselves his friends. Finally, someone directed him to Leliana, who received him with a fake apologetic look that fooled no one. She explained that the request for his quarters must have gotten lost in all the commotion around the Winter Palace assignment. He wanted to protest, but the spymaster dropped her voice and gave him an imploring look.

"Remember what I told you two weeks ago, Cullen? Do whatever feels right, those were my words. So, think about it. Where would you want to sleep if you had the choice?", Leliana cocked her head in an interrogative sort of way, effectively silencing him. "Ask for the Laurestine Room."

"The what room?", he asked, never having heard that word.

"Laurestine, Cullen. It's a native orleisian flower. All rooms here are named after plants or jewels, this is how palaces work. Honestly, they teach you templars no culture.", she commented, sounding exasperated. Then, an almost impish glint came to her eyes. "Have a good night, Commander." She walked away, humming a lively waltz tune, the witch. He noted her melodic singing voice that could have easily rivalled with Shenlira's. It seemed people had named her nightingale for a reason.

After asking for the Laurestine Room, he was pointed to the guest wing by a shy maid, who almost dropped the stack of towels in her arms when she saw him. Cullen wondered if she knew who he was, or if his presence somehow frightened her, but when her face reddened, he remembered Shenlira's remark on how women simply liked looking at his face. To be the centre of attention made him uncomfortable, and this ball had reminded him about that fact all too well. The corridor was dimly lit by ornamented, golden candelabra along the walls, which were painted in royal midnight blue. It ended in a double door, inlaid with intricate gold and silver floral patterns. Cullen halted, hovering. He actually felt nervous when he knocked.

"Enter.", Shenlira answered after a moment.

The quarters they had given her were lavish and spacious, from the grand balcony with its marble balustrade to the magnificent rugs before the obsidian mantle around the fireplace. The leaping flames there made up the main light source in the room, except for a lone candelabrum on a small table between the two balcony doors. A wide, orleisian style bed stood to the left side of the room, covers and pillows still meticulously arranged, untouched. Rampant luxury all around. Cullen barely spared it a second glance. Instead… Shenlira sat curled up on a settee in front of the fire, an open book in her lap. She was still wearing the beautiful festival gown, shoulders covered by a velveteen cloak. Multicoloured stitching wound over both, the fabric spilling out around her in glossy cascades. Josephine had chosen well. Her dainty, bare feet had been propped on the settee, but as Shenlira turned to face him, they touched the cold, marble floor and twitched slightly. Cullen could not quite read the expression on her face. Something close to… Flurry? Anxiety? Excitement? The book on her lap closed with a thud and she put it aside before rising. With a fluid movement, he pulled the door shut behind him and latched it. Shenlira glanced at the small bag of personal things in his hand and amusement flickered in her eyes.

"I was wondering if you would even find this remote wing. Have they exiled you, Sajnalin? Or has some persistent admirer chased you here?", her tone might have been deliberately light, but he saw the rosy colour on her cheeks as she assessed him in his full ceremonial garb. During the ball he had seen the same look in her eyes when he had ignored some intrusive noble lady to have a moment of quiet talk with her: A possessive sort of pride, like she had won some great treasure that others envied, as they well should. Of course, she never voiced such a thought – the ways of females didn't work like that. But she seemed to enjoy the demise of many smiles when they realized his disinterest in other women. _Such uncharacteristic nastiness, Lira...,_ he thought blithely.

"Exile implies that I had been given quarters in the first place. I haven't, and when I asked around everyone kept dodging the issue as if…" As he looked at her framed by the warm glow of the fireplace, Cullen was captivated by how beautiful she was, his train of thought trickling away. All night, they'd had to behave within the court rules of decency, which meant no more than her hand resting on his arm while they walked between the guests, light as thistledown. Any show of affection beyond that and traditional dance was considered in bad taste, Josephine had tutored them both. So, between watching her in conversation with important guests from afar and having her within arm's reach, forbidden to touch her while all he could think about was the pale, singing skin beneath that flimsy weave of cloth… _If I become any more rigid, I might turn into stone._ , his body had complained. He'd had to fight the temptation to do something scandalous for endless hours. But not anymore. They were finally alone.

Shenlira seemed to read some of those thoughts on his face, because her gaze skittered sideways to the large bed and he heard the shallow breath she took, suddenly blushing for real. The bag simply dropped to the floor. With two long strides, he'd closed the distance between them. Her cloak fell to the ground, whispering its secret assent as he pulled her into his arms. She let out a gasp, but it was lost when his mouth covered hers in a fierce kiss that took her breath away. He held nothing back, letting her know how much he'd longed to do this all night in the way his tongue explored her with a searing intensity. She felt him shudder when she responded just as keenly, wrapping her arms around his neck to tug him closer. The heady taste emboldened her, turned blood to honey, galvanized some unknown force inside her from its slumber. She playfully bit down on his lower lip, the surprised intake of breath allowing her tongue to slip inside and dance with his. His hands moved restlessly along her back, down her spine to her luscious backside, holding them together with not an inch of space to spare. She felt the demanding pressure of something hard and… solid at her stomach. _Oh._ Fleetingly, she wondered if this, as most other things in her relationship with a human man, would also be quite different to the experiences she'd had before… Cullen broke their kiss and she wanted to protest. He dipped his head and and a hot rush of air fanned over the sensitive skin of her neck, his lips wandering downward from the line of her jaw. The sensation made her tremble and bury her hands in his hair as she'd wanted to for ages, eons, maybe eternities. It was soft, likely the softest part of him overall, except for that insistent mouth and wicked tongue… Shenlira heard him make a frustrated sound when he encountered the barrier of woven silk at the bend of her throat. He seemed to be confounded by the manifold laces that tied her dress into place.

"How in the Maker's…", his voice sounded a little rough and he took one steadying breath before continuing, "How am I supposed to open this in the state I am? It's as though made to further puzzle a man-" Shenlira laughed quietly and untangled from his arms to turn around. Apprehension flickered in her eyes, but the next moment he was looking at the complicated arrangement of ties and hooks that seemed necessary in the world of women's clothes. Cullen spent some time untying and loosening them, while he wondered distractedly if she had expected him to spend the night. He couldn't fathom how she would have undone this enigma of a dress alone. When he finally separated the folds to touch the naked skin beneath, Shenlira stiffened. He immediately saw why. The burn mark he'd glimpsed weeks ago was no small patch as he'd thought. It wound along the whole left side of her back, a pattern of uneven skin with jagged edges, darker and discoloured, like the imprint of a flame. Faded by now, but he knew burn marks never completely disappeared. The worst of it was the patch on her shoulder, truly. He reached forth and just barely touched her, questing along the edge of the mark. Shenlira flinched and tried to pull away, embarrassed, but he held her back decisively.

"No… Don't pull away, Lira. Forgive me. Does it hurt?", he asked softly. She shook her head but did not speak immediately. Cullen let his fingers trace the whole length of the scar. He imagined the pain it must have caused her and a dull pang went through him, a faint echo of what she had endured. "It looks old… At least a decade…?", a question rang in his tone.

"There was a fire… When I was eleven – no, twelve I think. Our aravel burned down, the caravans we use. I got caught under a burning column…", her words trailed away. She felt his hand at the small of her back, warm and comforting as it stroked upward along her spine. He pushed the fabric aside to lay his palm to the plain of her unmarred shoulder. It rose, strained, when she took a deep breath, then relaxed under his touch. The skin here was pristine, delicate, like the petals of a blossom.

"A terrible sort of pain to go through as a young child…", he said regretfully.

"I don't remember much about that time… Everything is a haze… But I have always found it an ugly thing, even now…", she said, doubt clear in her voice, but he lifted the heavy mass of her hair away from her neck. Rough bristles grazed along her nape, evoking tiny currents that prickled delightfully through her limbs. He inhaled the lovely fragrance, warmed by her fluttering pulse. _One of my favourite spots_ , he decided.

"You're wrong. You walked through fire and survived. Some of the faithful may see that as a symbol of divine favour, you know. But I rather think that you have some fire of your own…" His voice deepened and carried such a sensual tone, it made her tingle all over. He brushed the silken dress off her shoulders and it bunched at her hips, but he pushed it downward still until it fell to the floor in a heap. Her heart raced inside her chest like a wild horse in full gallop as he turned her to face him. Instinctively, she tried to cover her nakedness, but stopped when she saw the burning look in those eyes as they wandered down her body. His gaze lingered on her small breasts, their peaks a dark rosy colour in the light of the fire. _No going back now_ , that look told her. As if she'd wanted to. Unable to resist, he leaned in to claim her mouth once more, hands now free to roam. They explored every part of her gently, thoroughly, while his own clothes joined hers on the floor until she finally felt his skin on her own, was surrounded by his scent. It set her senses aflame in a way she had never known possible before, a searing desire that built and made her long for more, to be even closer. One whole, one complete thing. She almost didn't notice how Cullen had picked her up and settled her onto the blankets and pillows, but then his lips journeyed down her throat to her collarbone, while his hand cupped one of her breasts. He rubbed playfully over the tip and she was both abashed and aroused when it hardened, sending out waves of heat that pooled at the secret place between her thighs. Shenlira made a small sound of carnal encouragement, a soft moan, and it seemed to excite him to no end. More boldly he continued the torturous journey, a hot trail of kisses along her chest, further and further, until his tongue flicked over the puckered little peak of her breast. A hand traced the flat expanse of her stomach, then slipped into the downy triangle at the junction of her legs. She gasped in surprise, but he went on, undeterred. Chasing, inquisitive, parting the folds to find a spot so sensitive that each stroke of his fingers made her shiver with pleasure. What he did with his hand was a mystery – at some point she felt one of his fingers slip inside her and at the same time his touch flitted over that little spot in circles and his mouth was still ceaselessly teasing her -

"Cullen! What –", the breath caught in her throat and her lids fluttered, eyes unfocused. The instinct to be inside her for this moment and feel her come around him was almost overpowering, but he would finish this even if it killed him. He kissed her again to swallow the cry of abandon from her throat, to catch some of her wild essence, his tongue mimicking the wicked magic of his fingers. She suddenly tensed all over for a heartbeat before she began trembling frantically in his arms. Cullen revelled in her pleasure, tried to lengthen her climax, but the way her hips rubbed against the hard ridge of his arousal nearly undid him. He couldn't wait unless he wanted something extremely embarrassing and unsatisfying to happen. Shenlira was still panting disjointedly when he moved above her, gently parting her legs and bracing most of his weight on his arms as not to crush her. He tormented himself a bit longer by letting his whole length grind along the hot, smooth wetness between her legs. The breath rushed from his lungs, ragged, in a long hiss. Her eyes flew open. They were like molten silver in the semi-darkness, regarding him with such deep affection that he thought his heart might burst with it. At the same time a sultry smile played on her lips, hands lifting to his chest to roam the heated skin, exploring the hardened muscles of his shoulders. She seemed fascinated by the trail of dark blonde hair below his navel, pursuing it until her fingers encountered the silky tip of his arousal. It twitched in response and he groaned deep in his throat as though in pain.

"If you want me to stop, this is the wrong way…", he murmured unevenly. She continued to tease him for an excruciating moment before she answered.

"Why would I want that? _Could_ you even stop now, _vhenan_?", she whispered in a deep, sinful voice, lips dancing over the strong line of his jaw to the steel cords at his neck.

"I doubt it. It would be like taking a meal from a starving man… But… I might hurt you, you're so slight…", he seemed to be in some internal struggle. Shenlira snatched the decision away. She adjusted her position beneath him and suddenly wrapped a slender leg around his hips, pulling him close. The protest died in his throat as he slipped inside her, just barely. But once he had started, he couldn't stop – an instinct as old as life drove him forward, deeper, until he was buried entirely in her. Maker, she was so tight, he had difficulty not spending himself then and there. It had been so long since the last time and he'd fantasized about this moment countless times, but imagination just didn't do it justice. Cullen had to muster all remaining willpower against the urge to move, for Shenlira had gone very still beneath him, her breath coming in puffs. A small pucker formed between her brows as she tried to adjust to the invasion, which was, in a word, just more than she'd expected. It didn't exactly hurt, rather twinged and burned… She felt her body trying to make room for it, yet at the same time the sheer scale made her go tense and just a little frantic. _Definitely different. Too much, too intense, exposed, open, nowhere to hide_ – But then he bent to shower her with feathery kisses. Cheeks, closed lids, the corners of her lips, light as butterflies and exceedingly gentle. He whispered and reassured her to relax, it would be fine, he wouldn't move until the discomfort passed, and then praised her with such ardour, how beautiful she was and oh how he'd longed to be one with her. _Yes, one._ No need to hide from the man she loved, no need to shut him out. It made her feel so cherished, like a boundless treasure, and with that knowledge her body eased up and unstiffened, welcoming him. Suddenly, everything seemed so easy. Natural. His thrusts began slow and measured at first, as though he tried to keep a strict control on himself. Fascinated, her hands came up to touch his face, now tense with concentration. She stroked through his hair and stretched to catch his lips for kisses between panting breaths. Deep brown eyes roamed over her hungrily while his pace quickened and became a rhythm of pure instinct. When she raised her hips to meet each of his thrusts and he heard an urgent hum build deep in her throat, he knew he wouldn't last. _Too good, tight like a glove and yet so warm, smooth. Let yourself go, fall._ After that, thoughts simply ceased to be. There was only the feel of her body beneath his, the sound of her pleasure, the scent of her naked skin like some exotic incense. He breathed her name, over and over, like an incantation, and she suddenly cried out, tightening rhythmically around him. The sensation of her coming undone caught him completely off guard. It was the exact moment he lost control. He let go, and fell, movements turning erratic. He uttered a long, drawn-out moan, before his whole body went rigid, then shuddered wildly as release took him to a place where stars danced in perpetual rapture.

It took several moments until the ringing in Cullen's ears passed and his vision came back to focus, but when it finally did, he found Shenlira looking up at him. Some deep emotion dwelled in her eyes, something infinite and priceless that made him weak inside. He moved to relieve her of his weight, but gathered her into his arms, resting brow against brow. A silence fell that needed no words to fill it, a simple, mutual enjoyment. He didn't know how much time passed before Shenlira spoke softly.

"Do you know what _Las'amelin_ is?", she asked, nuzzling into the bend at his shoulder. Her wild mane spread out around her like a river of dark flames.

" _Amelin_ … that means 'name'. _Las_ …", Cullen tried to remember, but didn't recall that word. He let one strand of her hair slide through his fingers and watched it curl insolently across her face. She gave him an adorably annoyed look and brushed the unruly thing away.

"Stop that! Your hair might stay in a perfect shape all the time, but mine is like… It's always in the way-", she complained. It made him smile.

"I love it. It's as if it has a life of its own… Wild like your spirit. And yet so soft…", he kept playing with the stray locks as though they were some great mystery to be solved, oblivious to her small sigh of defeat. "What is _Las'amelin_ , my Lira? Tell me.", he coaxed after a while.

"It means 'Granting a name' in elven and it's said to be one of the only rituals that survived from the time before Arlathan fell. It's hard to explain… Sort of like a declaration by naming.", here she fidgeted with the covers for a moment, "Some of the bonds we make in life are significant enough that we feel the need to grant them a different name than their given one. A private name that symbolizes what that person means to us."

"Like Sajnalin?", he queried quietly, listening to her words with avid attention, knowing that they were of great significance. She closed her eyes for a moment and nodded.

"Yes, like Sajnalin. I invoked _Las'amelin_ the night I wrote you that note, and with it I declared my bond to you, although you didn't know it back then, or maybe you did, on some innate level…", she fell momentarily silent.

"I did know. It felt important to me.", Cullen confirmed. Shenlira sighed and he sensed that it took her a great deal of trust to voice what she said next.

"The mark you saw on my back? That was the night my mother perished. After that… It was just me and father, and he… he never really stopped grieving. We were like strangers living under the same roof for a long time. I think my face… it reminded him of her too much. Oh no, he never neglected me. I welcomed the distance… For a long time, I have been alone, but in my youth, it was by choice. There were friends, sometimes… Never too close though. I became Alaslin because it meant I could roam the wilds on my own. To be Alaslin is to have utter freedom. And utter solitude. What were bonds to me when I had Cub, and the open forest? I might never have realized my loss. Then I became Inquisitor and came to understand what true friendships are like. The intensity, the trust, even the jokes… But even so, it had never even occurred to me to invoke _Las'amelin_. Until you.", she paused for several heartbeats and he was so stunned by her honest words that he couldn't find any coherent reply. _Lira…_ She had never spoken so openly to him about her feelings before and even though she hadn't exactly hidden them either, it felt overwhelming to hear them like this. Shenlira cleared her throat and shook her head with a small jerk, like a wolf shaking its pelt.

"That night when I found you during your episode… I understood so many things. It made me ill that you would go through that alone, and I wanted you to confide in me so badly. You always protected me from afar, even when I ran wild and did stupid things. And all the while you were struggling with the immense difficulty of living without lyrium. I admired your tenacity, your pure strength of will. And I knew then the name of my bond.", her voice gained certainty at the end, and she met his eyes with a clear, determined gaze. He pulled her against his chest in an embrace that he knew was almost too tight, but he couldn't help it.

"Lira, my heart… If you only knew how much of that strength is built on the trust you have given me. You are not on your own anymore. I will never leave you to face the darkness alone.", Cullen whispered close to her ear, his throat constricted by emotion.

"Neither will I, Sajnalin.", she replied softly. The room had gone dim in the dying firelight when he finally found the resolve to let her go. She gave a small yawn and laid her head on his arm, regarding him with a curious look.

"I always wondered… Where did you get this?", she lifted a hand and traced the scar that ran down his upper lip. His mouth quirked in a smile.

"That story is embarrassing. I'm not sure I'd keep my good reputation if I tell it to you…", Cullen let his words dribble away, building suspense. It worked. Shenlira wiggled a little and lifted her head like a fox that had just caught a hare's scent.

"Now you have to tell me! Please, Cullen!", she pleaded, but he only laughed and leaned over her, stealing a passionate kiss that made her breathless.

"It's Cullen now? Call me _vhenan_ again, like you did when we made love, in that sinful voice… And maybe I'll tell you then…", he whispered enticingly, fingertips barely fluttering over her side, up her arm.

"Cullen!", this in a tone both flippant and rebuking. "You can't already…", she continued, blushing.

"No, I'm not a young lad anymore. But make no mistake, I would, if I could. Just to see you look at me again like you did." His hand cradled her face, thumb stroking her cheek in a feather-light touch. Shenlira smiled jauntily, but then narrowed her eyes at him.

"Are you truly flattering me, or are you trying to distract me from the story?", she asked with an air of suspicion.

"Yes.", Cullen said in an innocent tone, and she stretched to take nip at him, making him laugh light-heartedly. For a few hours at least, they were not carrying the weight of the whole world on their shoulders, the constant fear of making a wrong decision that could lead countless people into peril. They were just two lovers who revelled in each other's closeness, in the depth of all they had exchanged, completely caught in their own little world. Deep into the night they whispered softly, huddled beneath the warmth of the exquisite covers, as though speaking a secret language nobody else knew. At some point, Cullen felt the inevitable lure of sleep encroach on him and Shenlira wrapped her arms around his neck protectively. She started humming a soft, quiet song, a lover's lullaby. Her hand settled on his nape to caress his hair, and he pressed his face to the hollow of her throat, where the warm skin was fragrant with the lilac scent he loved. Never had he felt such peace, such belonging, as he did then. The lullaby had no words, but it still seemed to speak to him like a tender wish, a gentle prayer. _Sleep, my heart. I will guard our dreams. Let no worry, no hurt reach us. Dream of simple things, of joys long past, of days spent in sunlight._

Some part of him he'd never consciously been aware of before, a struggling, doubtful, hopeless thing, stopped flailing inside and went still. He let it go, as someone would drop a stone into a deep pond. His eyes closed and he fell asleep in the sheltering circle of her arms, knowing if he could spend every night like this, it would be enough, for the rest of his days.

From far away in the waking world, he thought he heard her speak, but his mind already flew through shadow and fog, treading the land of dreamers. It could have just been the comforting crackle of a log in the fire.

" _Ar lath ma, vhenan_."


	9. IX From Beyond, I Arrive

_So while the first few chapters were quite peaceful, giving our two main characters a lot of time to get to know each other and grow close, it can't stay all calm forever, can it? This is the part where shit hits the fan, as Varric would say. I'll not say more._

 **IX. From Beyond, I Arrive**

 _In my time as a leader, I have learned many important lessons about respect, perseverance and the weight of justice. But there is one lesson I will, above all, never forget: It is at the height of your strength that you are the most exposed. At the point where you feel victorious and invulnerable, that is when disaster will exploit your guilelessness, and strike.  
Shenlira_

* * *

Shenlira awoke before dawn, stirred from sleep by a dream. It had not been a nightmare, but had felt like a childhood memory long forgotten. A forest deep at night and the smell of burning wood in the cool air. She had been carried by strong arms that were not her father's, endlessly on through the shadowed maze of trees. Lights had flickered in the distance, yellow and red ribbons somewhere far behind, but she was taken away from that place, that place where something had ended… _That time is long gone now. It is for the better._ She was momentarily saddened by it until she became aware of warm, male body against her back, holding her in a tender embrace, skin against skin like a snug cocoon. His scent mingled with her own, a leftover reminder of their lovemaking, and the images it brought to her mind made her tingle all over. His face above hers, taut with concentration, the look in his eyes as though he was lost in the throes of passion, and the way it had felt when he had moved inside her, so fierce and yet so gentle… The hand that had rested lightly on her hip moved as if it wanted to emphasize that memory, fingers wandering upward playfully.

"Did you dream, just now?", Cullen said quietly, nuzzling into her hair. She smiled and turned in his arms. His face, as familiar by now as a favourite song, appeared completely relaxed as he surveyed her with a look of deep affection in his dark eyes.

"How did you know?", she wondered, smiling at the unruly mess his blonde hair seemed to be in the morning. So he _did_ do something to it, although the state it was in right now might have been her doing…

"You mumbled in your sleep, in elven. It did not sound distressed though. I hope you have slept well?", he inclined his head and placed a light kiss on her temple. The last words sounded distinctly prankish, making her blush and realize that she was still not wearing a stitch of clothing. Cullen could not suppress a smile, one that was so light and carefree, the smile of a young man. This aspect of him was still new and rare, such a contrast to the solemn, dutiful side he showed to most of the world. But both were part of the same man, telling her a story about his true depth. _There is so much more to him than what can be seen on the surface._

"I… very well, actually.", she managed to say and then eyed him, half-curious, half-embarrassed. "That thing you did… With your hand…", she dropped her voice as though somebody else could hear her words if they were too loud. Cullen's smile broadened in clear amusement. "Where does a sequestered templar learn something like that?" This actually made him laugh out loud.

"I didn't live all my life like a priest, you know, contrary to what everyone believes. There have been a few women…" He didn't finish the thought. Shenlira's eyes widened in dismay.

"A few?", she echoed, indignantly. His hand wandered from her hip up her arm and he let his fingers trace the elegant ridge of her collarbone before he answered.

"A few means three, in this case. And then none for a long time. And now there is only one.", this last he reaffirmed by leaning in to kiss her. She moved to protest, yet he stayed adamant. With uncanny skill, he proceeded to distract her so thoroughly that soon she forgot all about other women and quite frankly, everything else around. Afterwards, a blissful kind of silence fell around them once more, a peculiar peace only lovers knew. Shenlira felt drowsiness creep in and her body relaxed into a bone-less languor.

"I wonder if anyone suspects that behind that discipline of yours there hides an entirely wicked man.", she mused, a yawn stretching her voice. He laughed quietly at that and pulled the covers up to her shoulder.

"Varric, maybe. That song he sang during the march…", he answered, making her snort.

"That was no song, it was a filthy epithet." The timbre of her voice told him she was dozing off.

"Rest a bit… Someone is sure to come knocking soon, with some important matter or other.", Cullen whispered. He moved to separate from her as not to disturb her sleep, but a slender leg pinned him down with surprising strength, just as she would have locked a spirited horse to her will.

"Don't leave. Just a little longer.", he heard her say, and he did stay, enjoying the remaining time where nobody bothered them, with all the world muted and softened _. It should be like this every day_ , an inner voice suggested to him. _It should_ , he conceded. Until, sadly, a clouded sun peeked through the balcony doors and someone indeed came knocking.

* * *

The departure from Winter Palace was a lengthy affair full of formal farewells, bows and polite promises. Gifts were exchanged, some of them important contracts or ledgers about soldiers transferring from one force to another, as a show of good will. Some were actual supplies, others purely symbolic paraphernalia who's meaning probably no one but Josephine fully grasped. Her ambassador had greeted her with a very knowing look in the morning after she almost ran into Cullen exiting her room. She couldn't refrain from a remark about Shenlira's sudden perkiness, but mercifully had turned more serious when the formalities started. Cullen on the other hand had overseen the loading of their carts and readiness of the soldiers for the march back to Skyhold. After he had received several baffled looks from his soldiers, he started thinking that something was wrong with his face. He asked them sharply what there was to smirk and goggle about, but they immediately went rigid and denied everything. So he shrugged and turned his back on them to mount Black, but caught a hushed conversation.

"Was the Commander actually humming?", this from recruit Marten, who else of course.

"I thought I hadn't heard right, but he was! This can only mean one thing…", another whispered excitedly.

"A deal has been sealed.", Marten, in an ominous tone.

"If you have so much time on your hands to discuss my personal life, maybe one of you would like to spend a day polishing my ceremonial armour with the smallest handkerchief I can find?", his voice made them flinch as though an eagle had swooped down to pick at their heads. "Off with you, pups!", Cullen barked, satisfied when they scattered like fishwives. He only barely glimpsed Leliana's slight smirk from across the gathering place and wondered if he had actually been humming.

Finally, after hours of formalities, they were allowed to leave the shining pomp of Halamshiral, embarking on the five-day journey back to Skyhold. Ash fell into step beside Black in a familiar way and Cullen felt a boyish sort of happiness when he caught the secret, bashful smile on Shenlira's face. She did not speak, but he sensed her thoughts about the night they had shared as if it was a graspable thing he could reach for, picking it from the air. He decided that all politics and squabbling nobles and Empress assassins aside, it had been a visit marked by revelations.

The first three days of their journey were uneventful. Night had already fallen on the fourth day when the procession came to a long row of empty farmhouses lining a road flanked by a steep slope. Torches had been lit to chase away the deepening shadows, but Cullen felt uneasy for a reason he could not define. The horses snorted and shook their heads, if from agitation or exhaustion, he didn't know. The scouts had not reported in for a while, yet that too simply happened after nightfall, when they moved more slowly and carefully. Nothing out of the ordinary. And yet…

"We should stop soon for the night, Sajnalin.", Shenlira spoke from beside him, sounding worried. "Something is making Ash restless. And the sky is overcast…", she looked above, where a deep blackness covered everything, not even one star shining through the thick clouds. A bleak sight.

"The next village is only an hour's ride away. We will camp on the outskirts and –", but he never finished his sentence. A bloodcurdling cry tore the night air apart. Silence fell for less than a heartbeat. Then several other shrieks joined in from all around, rising to an unearthly cacophony. Battle-cries.

The ambush was instantaneous. Red templar bore down on the Inquisition in a crimson wave, and Shenlira saw a young recruit be cut down by a broad sword sweep as a scythe cut wheat. He didn't even have time to draw his blade. Cullen's call to arms almost deafened her. The soldiers who had escorted the party from the Winter Palace met the red templar fearlessly. A terrible skirmish ensued. The enemy came from the shadows between the farm houses to their right, effectively bottling their forces up against the steep slope on the left.

Suddenly, men and women were fighting each other everywhere in those close quarters. Cassandra and Leliana stood their ground, side by side at Josephine's caravan. She watched the seeker bash a man over the head with her shield, while Leliana struck another down in a whirl of daggers. Bull swung his two-handed axe in sweeping arcs at the thick of it, surrounded by five attackers. One couldn't even swing a belt-knife without hitting someone. There just wasn't enough space. Screams and the screech of metal on metal filled the night air with a terrifying dissonance. Rider-less horses between the fighters whinnied and stumbled in panic, making it even harder to hit the right targets with her bow.

Ash startled from the intense sword clashes and when a templar lunged at Shenlira with his blade held high, she could not evade the strike. She was saved by Cullen, who stepped between rider and attacker and parried the blow. The man's sword skittered over his shoulder guard dangerously, but he managed to turn the blade and plunge his own into the man's chest. There was a brief relent in his ceaseless orders where he turned to her. He'd shed his cloak, silver armour now splattered with blood. Someone had managed to hit his arm and deal him a shallow cut, which was bleeding profusely. He didn't seem to care, instead looking her over thoroughly.

"Lira – are you alright?!", the fierce battle noise almost drowned out his yell and she could see his face was set in a grim mask.

"Am fine – they came out of nowhere. What-" But at that moment, another attacker charged at Cullen's vulnerable back. Her arrow hit him through the neck and he fell where he stood. Ash became more and more panicky beneath her, neighing and desperately trying to break her hold.

"You're too exposed down here! No archers - get up on that ledge!", Cullen's voice was one of command that she wouldn't have disobeyed if she'd wanted to.

Balancing on the roan's back, Shenlira reached for the edge of the slope and barely caught it. Her hands almost slipped when Ash finally could take no more and bolted, leaving her dangling in mid-air. Something that had once been a templar took a swipe at her with gleaming claws, but Cullen let out an enraged howl and cut the creature down. He squandered no time as he managed to grip her around the legs, pushing her upward as if she were no heftier than a bundle of hay. Panting, she gained purchase on the ledge and immediately scrambled to her feet.

Never before did Shenlira have to shoot a bow in such a thick, packed space. But shoot she did, there was little choice. Her people were herded closer to the slope, with no amount of reprieve in the unrelenting attack. She glimpsed Dorian on the roof of a carriage some way off, swinging his staff like a conductor during a concert. Solas and Varric, cornered against the rocks but protected by Blackwall who stood defending them like an indomitable bastion. She had no time to contemplate the strange luck that the enemy had no archers, but fired arrow after arrow into the fighting crowd, desperate to save as many of her people as she could. A templar trying to pull Dorian from the carriage buckled over, skewered through the back. One of the two attackers harassing Cullen fell too, arrow buried deep into the defenceless patch at his neck.

She shot and shot, until her quiver was empty. Someone threw her a full one and she caught sight of Scout Harding, who had joined the fight to protect the overthrown supplies cart. Two terribly young soldiers helped her bravely. Her next arrow saved one of them from an unearthly claw of red lyrium. The assault was a bloody, brutal thing and all her concentration went into the aim, praying endlessly that she wouldn't hit one of her own. So much so that she sidestepped without looking at the ground.

The world suddenly shifted sideways. Something closed tight around her ankle and pulled sharply, ripping her off her feet. There was no regaining her balance. Shenlira fell and slid down the other side of the ledge in a steep tumble. Snow creeped in everywhere, into her mouth and ears, even beneath her snug leather clothes, and she was freezing and coughing even before she reached level ground moments later. Her knee collided painfully with something hard and she lay still for just one heartbeat. When she stood and tried to take a step, she almost stumbled again, realizing that her ankle was in the tight grip of a metal wire. _A snare, here?!_ The thing that had bruised her knee was some odd contraption sticking out against the light snow in the darkness. As she looked around, she could make out more of the same snares lined up along the bottom of the ledge. The fighting sounds were almost silenced down here. Behind her, a cluster of firs stood, very closely grown. It was pitch black under their towering shadows, but that wasn't where she needed to go anyway.

The ledge loomed before her, many feet high and slippery with fresh snow. She'd fallen a long way and a helpless sort of panic hit her all of a sudden. _I have to get back!_ Her companions, her people were in danger. That thought drowned out any suspicions why someone might have set up these strange snares here, or why a small voice in her mind questioned the purpose of this peculiar ambush. She worked frantically to loosen the wire, when her neck suddenly prickled with awareness. Unseen eyes were watching her from the shadows. _Someone is behind you!,_ pure instinct shouted at her in alarm. Someone had waited patiently here, knowing she would gain the high ground during the fight. Setting snares to separate her from the others. Nothing about this ambush, or the many during her journeys before, had happened by chance. That realization turned her insides to ice.

Shenlira only had one moment's notice. One second in which she straightened and turned, before a hand gripped her throat and the dagger was plunged into her side. The tiny shift saved her lungs from being skewered, but she felt the blade rip through muscle and soft tissue, rending veins apart. And then came the pain. White-hot agony that made her queasy and blurred her vision, stunning in its intensity. The scream died in her throat and fleetingly, she thought she could hear a far-away, terrible laughter of triumph. A warm rush of blood drenched the fur-trimmed leather jacket as her body gave up its service, unable to keep her standing.

She fell to the ground, like a slow-moving avalanche, and saw the face of her attacker looming above, but the world was already fading. Only one glimpse. The bright gleam of an ivory necklace, shaped into the head of a white wolf. White, white, white in between the vast void. The darkness descended like a tidal wave and pulled her under. But in that last moment of clarity, hiding inside the burning haze of pain, she sensed something reach for her from beyond the veil, something insidious and evil. Older and much cleverer than her, it wore many names and yet defied her understanding. The utter wrongness of it made her want to cry out with terror. _No! No! Please, stop_ – Its claws buried into her very spirit and tore down the walls of her mind, freeing it to swoop in with a rush of glee.

 _Cullen! Sajnalin, help!_ The name, the final thought as she fell, deeper and deeper, into an endless nightmare.

* * *

"Where is she?!", Cullen's voice had risen to a yell without him noticing, but Leliana ignored the anger in it.

"She was up on the ledge the whole time, shooting down-", the woman halted and wiped blood from her dagger, then ordered the scouts to bring torches.

The fighting had finally stopped, although it had cost them dearly. Two dozen soldiers had perished in the ambush, and the number was climbing. As soon as they had put the red templar on the flight, Cullen had turned to the ledge, but Shenlira had disappeared. Nobody had seen her anywhere. Now he felt cold fear grip his heart and squeeze it tight. Where could she be? Had there been archers after all that he'd overlooked? _Did she fall off the other side and injure herself, or worse? She wouldn't leave without telling me. She wouldn't. Something happened._

Everywhere around, the Inquisition soldiers were trying to recover from a bloody skirmish. Many were wounded and the sounds of pain grated on his nerves. Healers tried to bandage his arm, but he waved them off and just tied a strip of cloth around it for now. When Cassandra and Leliana returned with torches, he barely spared them a glance before taking one and setting out. They rounded the ledge and found it went much further down than on the other side, into a forest of dark firs. Cullen's breath caught when they came across the dead body of a scout lying close to a strange metal contraption. It looked like some manner of coil. Leliana stepped around it carefully and her gloved hand dug up a thin metal wire beneath the snow. It went up to the ledge.

"A snare, of some sort.", she commented, but Cullen was overcome by a terrible apprehension. As he lifted the torch, he saw the entire length of the slope lined with snares. The flickering light fell on a second body next to one of them. A shred of colour caught his eyes, a glaring imprint against the white surroundings. The quiver. _No._

His heart turned over in his chest and he was running before he knew it. Shenlira did not stir when he called her name. An awful sound rent the air when he saw the snow drenched in red blood and the gaping cut on her side. Leliana and Cassandra flinched, making him realize that it was coming from his throat, a cry of pure denial. He dropped the torch to kneel beside her and gingerly lifted her into his arms. She was so cold, cold like death. _No, Maker, no! It couldn't be – not now!_ The stricken faces of the two women beside him told him he'd spoken those words out loud, yelled them, but he didn't care. With a strangled breath, he ripped off his gloves and searched for the pulse at the side of her neck. _There!_ It was so terribly uneven, galloping wildly ahead for a moment only to falter to a feeble flutter he could barely feel. But Cullen clung to that tiny thud like a drowning man to driftwood, willing it to go on, to keep fighting. Leliana assessed the damage methodically, her face grim in the torchlight flames, while Cassandra immediately sent the two scouts who'd accompanied them to get a litter.

"Dagger strike to her flank. Nothing vital was hit, only muscle and a big vein – she has lost a lot of blood. It isn't bleeding anymore, though. We should be able to rouse her."

But try as they might, they could not get Shenlira to open her eyes. Cullen called her name, even yelled at her in anger, provoked her, pinched her cheek. Nothing happened. She stayed still and unmoving, like a corpse. Panic threatened to overwhelm him. It hovered at the edge of his mind, but all the years of his training held it at bay, just barely. Leliana grabbed the torch and moved it as closely to the wound as she dared, leaning in. Cullen saw the jagged tear of skin and flesh beneath, red and angry. His blood ran cold at the sight. Bad cut. Deep into flesh, but no organs pierced. There was a strange discoloration of the muscles, as though…

"Poison.", Leliana's voice was toneless. "Cassandra, search for the dagger, now!" The seeker was already on her feet. Cullen heard her pace the area. His eyes met Leliana's over the lifeless body he held.

"Leliana –", but she cut him off.

"I will find a way!", this with such determination, he knew he did not have to say another word.

"It's here!", Cassandra called out, but when she reached for the blade lying in the snow, someone cried harshly, "Don't touch that!" Solas, walking towards them with brisk steps. The elven mage went straight to Cassandra to examine the dagger on the ground. He did something to it – Cullen had no idea what, but he spoke some elven words and a strange hissing sound came from the thing.

"Don't touch it with bare skin. It's fade-touched and poisoned. Wrap it in cloth.", he then swiftly turned and kneeled beside Shenlira. He let his hands drift a few inches above her, one close to the wound, the other at her heart. Cullen felt him work magic, unlike anything he'd sensed from Circle mages. He had stopped taking lyrium, yet some of his templar abilities still remained, and he suspected they always would. This magic was… old. Very old.

"Something is wrong. Inside her, her spirit – it calls out in despair. But I can't…", and then, out of nowhere, the Anchor on her hand sprang to life and hit Solas with a force that levelled him flat on his back. Shenlira's eyes opened wide, her body suddenly thrashing like a wild animal in Cullen's arms. She let out a scream that cut through his heart, a wail of pain and desolation. The wound spouted fresh blood as she ripped it open again with her desperate flailing. She threw utter gibberish at them, nonsense words he couldn't understand, neither elven nor human.

"Lira, stop! Lira!", Cullen tried to calm her, but received a blow to the temple when she lashed out, beyond knowing. Her eyes were in frantic movement, darting around but sightless, unfocused. _Maker, what is happening?_

"What have you done to her?!", he roared at Solas, who had just about gathered himself again. The mage did not answer immediately and Cullen took another swipe from Shenlira, his attention diverted. Everything in him rebelled at the idea of using force on the woman he loved, but there was no choice. _Break down later, focus now!_ They held her down, he and Cassandra together, until abruptly, she ceased struggling. For a short moment, her eyes cleared of the fog that seemed to hold her in its grip, and found his face.

"Sajnalin… It hurts…", it was a broken whisper. Tears streamed down her cold cheeks. They undid Cullen, twisting and tearing him apart inside. "He tore it all down, all of it – it burns. Like fire! I'm so afraid…" She fell silent and he saw a look of utter, naked fear in her eyes that felt like it would haunt him forever. Then she lost consciousness again, going limp and motionless.

"We have to get her back to Skyhold, now. Something is happening to her spirit, but there is a… A wall blocking me. I need the artefacts from my study. And I have to talk to Morrigan as soon as possible.", Solas said while the soldiers came and loaded Shenlira gently onto a litter. Cullen's mind was so disturbed that he could not think straight, but the disciplined, controlled part of him that had always managed the dire situations – the templar part – took over like an automated process. It felt as if he watched from above as his body moved and gave orders, but he played no true role in it, an observer on the outside.

"What is happening to her?", he demanded, but the elf's features went slack in defeat.

"I don't know.", he answered, dismayed.

Cassandra and Leliana took most of the duties he'd usually have to perform after such a terrible incident out of his hands. They saw to the injured and readied the departure, had the soldiers wrap the fallen into cloth and load the bodies to be carried home to their loved ones. People were sent out to get help from the nearby villages. Bull and Varric repurposed Josephine's cart to a sickbed for Shenlira, who was laid onto the soft blankets that many soldiers brought without being asked to. Dorian and a healer cleaned and bandaged her wound as best as they could. After a short dispute between Morrigan and Solas, they both decided against examining the wound magically again, since the first time had been dangerous enough.

Cullen walked between the soldiers and felt their solemn faces like an unbearable weight on his shoulders. Many of their comrades had died to achieve a victory that wasn't one at all. As their Commander, he was responsible for all of them. Until now, the Inquisitor had never been gravely injured before. They had thought her larger than life, possibly even invincible, and now they had friends to bury and a leader who hovered at the edge, holding on by a thread. He leaned against the cart, for a moment unable to breathe, unable to find strength anywhere. If he lost her, he would not come back from that. His world would be void of colour. Empty. Again.

"Cullen.", Josephine's soft voice roused him and he heaved a great sigh before turning to face her. The ambassador stood beside Leliana, both of them looking severe and extremely tired in the flickering torchlight. It was the middle of the night and nobody had slept or rested since the morning before.

"We leave now and don't stop until Skyhold. You better get in the cart.", Josephine went on.

"The soldiers… I have to-", but the protest lacked conviction, and nobody tried to pretend otherwise.

"No, leave that to us. She needs you right now. Just…", Leliana's words trailed away.

"Keep her alive. Andraste preserve us…", Josephine said wearily. Before Cullen climbed the steps to the cart, Leliana spoke again.

"Nothing about this ambush was random. Not the location, not the attackers, not anything. Our scouts died silently so nobody could warn us. Normally, I would say the orders must have come from Corypheus… But this was not his usual style, it reeks of a clever assassin. Whoever is behind it, they had this planned for a long time, knowing that Shenlira always takes the higher ground in a fight if possible. They set the snares to catch her and had the ambushers push us up against the ledge. I don't know why they didn't kill her or who 'they' even are. Not yet. But I will find out, and then we will make them pay.", her voice rang cold with contained rage, eyes hard and steely. Cullen gave her a heavy nod and watched her walk away as he closed the carriage door behind him.

Shenlira lay on a makeshift bed of blankets and pillows, silent and still. Someone had gathered Heartwood and the quiver he'd given her as a present. His cloak was folded beside them, together with a fresh linen shirt. He took it and gently wrapped her in the fur and feather lining, remembering that it had comforted her on a night that seemed like a million years ago. The carriage began moving as he took off the blood-splattered armour and changed into the new shirt, leaving the things in a corner. They smelled of death and violence. The healers had left Shenlira in a loose white tunic so she would not be constricted and the wound stayed accessible to them. Cullen half-sat, half-stretched out next to her and let his hand rest on her chest. Her heartbeat seemed a jerky, erratic thing, but it palpitated along somehow. _Live. Fight.,_ he urged the struggling muscle _. Fight with all that brimming vitality in you_. With his brow against hers, he began praying. It was the only thing he could do right now, plead the Maker to preserve her life – he didn't care anymore if she was truly any kind of divine champion, sent by Andraste. He would believe anything if she'd only survive.

He must have fallen asleep while praying, for it seemed his eyes had not closed for a moment when a shattering scream woke him. Shenlira went into a fit and he reached to soothe her, finding her skin burning hot as though he'd touched the glowing embers in a hearth. Her fever-bright eyes darted around the room, seeing nothing. The wild mane of fire-kissed hair stuck to her sweat-drenched brow and neck, lank and dull now. Her voice rose to a terrible keening and whatever horrors were seizing her, he was powerless to chase them away. People came running to help, but nothing calmed her. Cullen had fresh snow brought to cool her body. When the shivers started, he swaddled her with more blankets. Still, all through the night and into the morning hours, Shenlira would doze off into a fitful sleep and then wake screaming in such a dreadful way, Cullen thought it would drive him insane.

A grey, overcast dawn came and during one of her fits, while he begged her to _stop, please, be still, lest your cries break me apart_ … A sound came from outside the cart. One lone soldier's voice, singing. It was a forlorn lament and at the same time strangely soothing. Others joined him, one by one, until their whole procession was united in song. Cullen let his voice mingle with theirs, and by the end of it Shenlira had gone still in his arms, asleep for the time being.

The party stopped for exactly one hour by Leliana's orders, so the soldiers could at least take a short reprieve. Cullen left the carriage with the feeling of being ten years older than when he'd entered it. A lyrium headache hovered close to pounce on him at an unguarded moment, and he was so tired, endlessly tired. He wandered between the horses and men, all grim and silent, until he found three people talking in quiet, serious voices. Solas and Morrigan were arguing about something, while Leliana tried to sort it out. He did not trust the apostate witch and her strange powers, although she now eyed his appearance with a sort of wary sympathy.

Cullen caught Leliana by the arm, but she had already seen him and spoke out.

"How is she?", she asked in a tight tone.

"The fever still rages through her. She sleeps, but fitfully. The screaming and thrashing tires her out…", he began and dropped his voice for what he said next. "Leliana, you have to stop it. She has so little strength left and… I don't know how much longer I can bear it." Still, the other two seemed to have heard his words, since they shifted uncomfortably on the spot. Leliana's eyes were the only thing that showed emotion in her face as she looked at him. They were deeply sympathetic.

"Cullen, I wish I could, please believe me. But any potion we give her could interfere with the poison. I was just speaking to Morrigan…" The witch took the mention as an invitation to speak. Her voice was confident, but grave.

"We analysed the dagger and found that not only the weapon was fade-touched, but the poison on it too. It's rare, possibly even unique. There is little we can do until we have Skyhold's magical resources at our disposal. From what Solas told me, any magic we try on her is… blocked. I suspect it's a barrier designed for exactly that purpose, so the poison can work undisturbed. Although…", she was in deep thought for a moment, her strange yellow eyes on something far away.

"Although I could put a paralyzing curse on her. It would only affect her body, bypassing the barrier. The screaming and thrashing would stop and maybe we'd finally get some sleep.", she said in a slightly clipped tone. Solas looked outraged at the idea.

"Barbaric! She would still feel everything, still be in pain, still anguished. How would you like to be locked inside a body that cannot move, crippled by poison and fear, unable to call for help?!", he demanded.

"If she keeps this up, she will fade away before we even reach Skyhold and then what, mage? Have you found a way to cure death yet that doesn't make a shambling corpse but a real person?", the witch snapped, but seeing the look on Cullen's face, they both fell silent. He closed his eyes for a long moment and heaved a sigh.

"Do it.", he then said curtly, hoping to the Maker that Shenlira would forgive him this act. Insisting that he be present during the spell, he stood back while Morrigan and Solas argued how to do it for a while. At last they agreed that Solas would try and keep the anchor contained while Morrigan paralyzed Shenlira. At the moment when Morrigan spoke the incantation, Shenlira woke and went rigid.

" _Ma'shal en hes Fen'Harel!_ ", she cried in a broken voice and Solas flinched back momentarily. Morrigan snarled at him to keep the containment shield steady. An unreadable expression flickered across his face, but he caught himself. When they'd finished the spell, Shenlira fell back to the covers and moved no more except for the shallow rise and fall of her chest. There was a terrible stillness to her now, but at least she was not struggling anymore.

"What was that, what she said just now?", Cullen asked Solas, but Morrigan answered instead of him.

"A phrase the Dalish invoke to ward off ill omens: 'Don't take me, Dread Wolf". You know the elven god of deceit, I assume? The People believe he can snatch away their lives at his whim, and so they try to banish him when they feel death is near.", she said. Cullen had no idea what she saw on his face, but the woman who had never been known to take back blunt words suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"The fever is the reason. She is seeing ghosts and terrors that are not here. But the fits should stop for now. We will lift the curse when we get back to Skyhold and figure out how to fight this… thing.", she added in a more measured tone, before she left. Solas stayed for a moment longer. As Cullen watched, the mysterious elf rested one hand on Shenlira's brow, his face showing an odd kind of pity.

"It is not the end yet. _Ir abelas, Da'Assan_.", he said quietly. During his study of the elven language, Cullen had learned enough to understand those words: _I am sorry, Little Arrow_. As silence fell inside the cart and he was once again alone with her, he wondered what Solas had meant by those words. Sorry about her being hurt? Sorry that it is was not the end yet? But exhaustion soon dragged him under, and, with one hand lightly on the spot where he felt her flickering heartbeat, Cullen fell into a restless sleep.


	10. X Blood Of My Blood

_Hello again! This chapter is named Blood Of My Blood, clearly a little reference to Game of Thrones in that title (you might come across some other small references to series or games that I like during the whole of the story). I had incredible fun writing this. In this chapter, I play a little fast and loose with the magical confines that the game has set, but I liked how it all turned out. I think that somehow, everyone (who is not Tranquil or a dwarf) has some innate connection to the Fade, which is after all the world of things incorporeal, and therefore (in my opinion) the world of emotions. 'Connection' is the key here. In any case, I hope you like it. Ah, Cullen, that fearless, tenacious hero. I loved writing this very special journey of his. In my opinion, what makes his character so wonderful is that unfaltering will to prevail._

 _It is likely that my story will move to archivesofourown soon, but I might keep updating here too. If not, I shall inform and post a link of course._

* * *

 **X. Blood Of My Blood**

 _Origin is the scale on which all deeds are measured. Until you go out into the world and make a name for yourself, you are where you came from. Maybe even thereafter.  
Dalish saying_

* * *

They returned to Skyhold in the late afternoon. Scouts had already informed the keep about the ambush and its dire consequences, and so everything was ready for them when they arrived. Shenlira was brought to her quarters and tended by several healers, to no avail. Why should anything ever be easy? She lay on the wide four poster bed in the unnatural stillness Morrigan had put on her. The witch and Solas locked themselves in his study for hours on end, looking for any kind of solution against the poison that was slowly draining Shenlira. Cullen refused to leave her side. Nobody had even expected him to. When he requested his reports and scrolls to be brought to the quarters so he could work from there, he was simply ignored. Fresh out of patience, he went into a rage about his orders being disobeyed, but the soldiers just stood there and took it with grave faces, until Leliana came and dismissed them. She told him sternly that the troops would get along without him for a while, effectively snatching command from his hands.

"I know why you act like this, Cullen. You think that even when you're insane with worry, you need to keep doing your duty. Well, you don't. Leave those things alone for now.", she said, emphasizing each sentence. "If by some chance, we can't find a way…", she continued.

"Don't even speak those words.", he cut her off savagely.

But after three days during which he was unable to infuse any form of sustenance into Shenlira, a crippling hopelessness began to dawn on him. She continued to decline, skin turning greyish and sickly, her cheeks sunken and gaunt. Cullen had the feeling that something was sapping her from the inside, a leech that fed off of her life-force, thinning her out until he thought she would simply vanish. It seemed terribly familiar somehow, but his exhausted mind could not make a connection. _This cannot go on for much longer_. Damn it all, he knew that, no need for his insticts to point it out so crushingly. He ignored the worried glances from Cassandra or Varric whenever they came to visit, but suspected that he looked almost as bad as Shenlira.

Much later he would look back on those days and call them the most arduous time in his life since the Circle incident in his youth. Desperate to calm his mind, Cullen perused some of the objects that she had collected over the years, which now lay untouched around her quarters, like ghostly reminders of a time long passed. Books of all sorts lined the shelves, a good few of them elven tomes with filigree runes covering their spines. On a graceful stand next to the great oak desk, someone had placed bow and quiver. There was a lute with intricate carvings running all along the slender wooden body. He hadn't known that she played the lute. Why had he never asked her? There had never been enough time. His fingers ran over a beautiful box inlaid with mother of pearl and ivory. A melody started when he opened it, and a small bone figure appeared beneath the lid, turning slowly to the tune. Varric looked up from the book he'd been reading to Shenlira. The tune of the music box was soothing, a mother's lullaby. Was it? Another thing he might never find out. Time, that fickle entity, fled relentlessly, with each deafening tick of the clock on the mantlepiece, until he couldn't take it anymore and threw the damn thing out the window. Varric stared. Cullen knew he was being unreasonable, possibly mad even, and didn't care.

* * *

During the night, Cullen woke with a start. The remnants of a terrible nightmare still held him in their grip. In the utter silence all around, he had a sudden feeling that something else was in the room with him and Shenlira. Not a person, something much more alien than that. The sensation made his hackles rise.

He barely suppressed a cry when the door opened. In came Solas and Morrigan, followed by every greater mage who had joined them, even Vivienne. Cassandra, Leliana and Varric trailed right behind. Cullen straightened immediately, roused by the deep concern on their faces.

"What is it?", he asked nobody in particular. Morrigan answered him. She held out the dagger that had brought about this whole tragedy, the blade resting on a piece of velvet.

"We believe we know what happened. First of all, this weapon is old. And with that I mean it was dug up from some ancient elven ruin. The magical traces it carries go back over centuries. Its nature is such that…", she did not go on. Solas continued for her.

"It might have been a sacrificial dagger, used for blood magic. An artefact like this would not go unnoticed by Dalish keepers, it should be in their possession, kept far away from anyone who would use its dangerous power. But somehow, a weapon imbued with the blood of many sacrifices made its way into the hands of an assassin.", Solas' voice was laced with outrage.

"Blood magic, Maker's Breath… What-", Cassandra spoke, but Morrigan interrupted her.

"That's not all. We took the thing apart to get to its secrets. The poison coating it was incredibly complex and magically strengthened. And yet it was masking what was beneath with a cleverness that is almost admirable, were it not so troubling.", the witch held the dagger closer to Cullen and turned it carefully to the firelight. Fine lines of crystalline blue weaved across the blade, like threads of gossamer. He recoiled as if shown a snake that would strike at any second. Impossible.

"Yes. It's Lyrium. The Inquisitor was stabbed with a blood magic infused dagger, coated with a crippling poison, and to top it all, Lyrium on the blade.", Morrigan said, meeting the stunned expressions all around her.

"To what purpose?", Varric finally asked.

"Certainly not to kill her, or at least not right away.", Solas elaborated, "When she was stabbed, the blood that was spilled reacted with the blade and called the barrier into life that prevents us from magically healing her. These things don't hold forever, though. We could probably break it by now, but…", he did not go on and Cullen had half a mind to throttle him. Instead, Solas exchanged meaningful looks with the other mages. Dorian spoke next.

"But we fear that the poison – designed to weaken her body and with it her resilience – has already done what it was supposed to do. It's not what causes this… this state."

"Which leaves the Lyrium.", Morrigan continued seamlessly, and Cullen felt dread coil in his insides like some cold-blooded beast. The witch turned her golden eyes to Shenlira's unmoving body in the bed. "Lyrium is a physical bridge between the real world and the Fade. Direct contact will strengthen one's connection to the Fade, opening the mind to it. As many of you know, apprentices consciously enter it when they are given a Lyrium potion during their last test before they are accepted as Circle mages. We think that this was the true purpose of the attack. To open her mind to the Fade. Right now she… she is going through a Harrowing." Absolute silence followed those words, but only for the fraction of a moment.

"What?!", every non-mage in their midst cried as if with one voice, a voice of disbelief.

"She can't go through a Harrowing, she has no magical abilities! She's not a mage, has no connection to the Fade except-", Cullen's tone was one of pure denial. _Denial, denial, denial!_ _Say it often enough, and it might become true_ -

"Except for the Anchor on her hand.", Morrigan cut him short. "A thing that can close Fade rifts and I'm sure open them too, if she chose to. We know very little about the Anchor, but it gives her a unique connection to the Fade, possibly even a stronger one than mages have. Everything that happened to her mimics a sort of rogue Harrowing. If we are right…"

"If it is a Harrowing, that means she is trapped inside her mind with a demon.", Cullen said in a dead voice. He remembered the unsettling presence he'd felt shortly before. Nobody said anything for a lingering moment.

"But she fought a demon before. The Envy demon in Therinfal. Maybe she can fight this one too!", this from Varric, but the hope was wiped from his face when Solas shook his head.

"That was different. When she fought the Envy demon, she was physically hale, alert and her mind had strong wards. None of that is the case now. And still, she had needed Cole's help to defeat Envy." As though the speaking of his name had conjured him up, Cole manifested at the bed-end and gave them all a terrible shock. His back turned to them, he spoke toward Shenlira.

"Yes. It is different this time. He came and tore down all the walls, then built one of his own, to keep her in the nightmare.", the boy's tone was quiet, his words cryptic as always.

All around Cullen, a frantic argument broke out. Their voices mingled into a vortex of emotions, anger against reason, doubt against desperation. Something needed to be done, and soon, but what, what? They discussed and quarrelled, an endless litany of words without meaning, for nobody had a solution. In his heart, he knew that the mages had it right. And he also knew, with a sinking feeling of terror, what was the only way to stop a Harrowing from going wrong. _Killing the host_. That thought made him so queasy, he had to grip a bedpost for support or the blackness at the edges of his vision would have overcome him.

"I would like to speak to the Commander, alone.", Solas voice rose over the arguing of the others and somehow reached him in his own personal hell.

"Why? If you have a solution, then we should all hear it.", said Cassandra, contained anger and strain in her voice. Cullen turned to face the elf, who threw a meaningful look his way.

"I have… a proposition for a _possible_ solution.", Solas said, making everyone regard him with confusion. "Please, this is a very personal decision he has to make. I would like quiet and privacy when I explain it.", he elaborated. Reluctantly, the others left. Only one person remained in the room with them, crossing her arms, eerie golden eyes surveying them critically.

"Oh, I know what he will propose, and there is no chance you are doing this without me. You need someone to watch over you.", this was directed at Solas, who gave a grudging nod.

"What is this about, Solas?", Cullen wanted to know. The elven mage did not answer immediately, instead he walked around the bed to Shenlira's side. "We will need you too, Cole.", at Solas' calling, the boy reappeared, looking determined. Morrigan turned her back on all of them and walked to the balcony doors, staring out into the night. Finally, the elf heaved a sigh and looked Cullen straight in the eyes.

"Shenlira is dying.", he stated bluntly. "While the poison has dangerously weakened her body, the nightmare that holds her is sapping her spirit of what little strength she has left. For now, she is still fighting it. But if we do not do something soon, the demon will succeed and overpower her." The words were sober, no beating around the bush. _Dying. Fading into non-existence. Gone._ He could think of no coherent reply to that, so Cullen kept his silence, waiting.

"There is only one way I can think of that might save her, and I cannot begin to explain how dangerous it is. You need to enter her nightmare, through the Fade, and find whatever torments her. Then, destroy it.", Solas explained, his face expressionless. Cullen went pale at the suggestion. It was Morrigan who spoke scathingly from the balcony.

"How do you expect him to brace the nightmare? How will you get him inside her mind in the first case?", the witch demanded, but Solas stayed calm.

"There is nobody alive who knows the Fade as I do. I will guide him, of course.", the elf answered.

"Can I really enter the Fade the way I am? A former templar, and without Lyrium…", Cullen wondered.

"It is not the Fade as you know it, but Shenlira's spirit which resides there. Her inner world, if you will. You would not enter through templar abilities or Lyrium, but through the connection you share between each other. Again, I have to stress this point – it is dangerous. We could get lost in her nightmare, in the many layers of memories upon memories that make her who she is. We walk her domain, and the demon's. We could fall prey to some unknown threat or the demon might destroy our minds. We could die in the nightmare and wake up insane." _Ridiculously simple choice, not even a choice at all_. For him, at least. He would try anything, even with possibly dire consequences. But he looked at Solas, who seemed willing to be his guide and put himself in the same danger.

"You would do this thing with me, knowing how risky it is?", Cullen asked, to which the mage nodded solemnly. He glanced at Shenlira.

" _Da'Assan_ is... like a sister to me. Many discussions had to pass until I realized how unlikely a mind she has for a Dalish elf. She has to go on in this life. And I believe that you can save her.", Solas met his eyes when he said this, and after seeing Cullen's doubtful expression, he added in an almost gentle tone, "As I said before, this is a very personal matter, a decision to be weighed carefully. What we intend to do is an incredible breach of privacy. We will trespass on her inner landscape, a place she guards very carefully from most people. But _Da'Assan_ – Shenlira – trusts you more than anyone. Only you will be able to reach the deepest layer, where the demon is sure to reside." Cullen wished he had as much trust in his abilities as Solas seemed to have. He had no idea what awaited him inside Shenlira's nightmare, but when he took a moment to look at her face, the thought of going through the rest of his life without her was simply unbearable. For a moment, his eyes closed. _Da'Assan… Little Arrow._ That was a _Las'Amelin_. When he looked at Solas again, his face was set with determination. If Shenlira had trusted this man far enough to give him a name, he would too.

"I'll do it.", Cullen said severely. Morrigan made an exasperated sound.

"I don't know which one of you is more insane. The Lyrium-less templar who intends to leave reality, where he is strongest, or the mysterious backwoods mage who thinks he can walk the Fade like a god.", but even though she made this sarcastic remark, she seemed to be eager to help them, squaring her shoulders and shaking her head as she paced the length of the bed.

"Being a templar will help him in the nightmare. Even without Lyrium, their ability to call on the real world is… peculiar, singular.", Solas noted, then bid him to find a comfortable position in which to 'fall asleep'. What he meant was no actual slumber, but a subtle trance by hovering at the edge of sleep, while retaining some awareness. At this point, lucid dreaming became possible. He also instructed Cullen to keep physical contact with Shenlira, as this would strengthen their connection and better allow him to cross over into her nightmare. Gathering her unmoving form in his arms, he let her head rest on his chest and leaned back against the headboard. Solas faced him, sitting cross-legged and not at all perturbed by the strange scene.

"Remember one thing above all in the nightmare: It is not reality, but symbolic representation. Allegories, metaphors, memories. But everything we will see is part of her in some way, belongs with her spirit.", he explained, before he turned to Morrigan.

"Morrigan will watch over us while we go on this journey. Should something go wrong, please try to wake us first. If that fails, contain us. If that fails…", he did not finish that sentence, but the witch nodded once, a tiny jerk making her earrings jingle.

"After we enter the nightmare, you can let the others back in and tell them what we are up to. But for spirit's sake, don't let them interfere. This task will be taxing enough on the Commander's mind without additional voices from the real world.", Solas emphasized, then faced Cullen again with a serious look in his eyes.

"Now we begin. Let your mind drift to the edge of sleep. Thoughts should be neutral, relaxed, void of concern and sorrow. Imagine a place that holds pleasant memories. Slow your breathing as you would do during a deep prayer. Let go of this physical world and search for your connection to her." His voice was monotone and slow, almost soothing, like listening to a pendulum clock. Cullen's eyes fell shut and he did as bidden. It was hard to empty his mind of the apprehension and even fear he felt, but the bone-deep exhaustion of the last few days helped somewhat. He let the thoughts go as one let messenger birds fly, one by one, and his mind drifted off, conjuring a memory of falling asleep with her by his side. She had hummed some tiny tune, probably without even noticing it, her hand stroking through the hair at his nape. That was a pleasant memory, as pleasant as he would ever remember, a precious thing like a well of strength and peace. Evoking it before his mind's eye, his breathing slowed, his heart calmed. The edge of sleep was before him and he sailed along it as a ship along a current, feeling the waves that tried to pull him to one side or the other. _Wake up, or go to sleep – don't hover. No, no,_ Cullen chided himself. _We stay here, searching for connection… Her body in our arms, still warm and breathing. Her trust in us, a carefully grown and groomed tree, by now unyielding. Each secret exchanged a branch, each day a new leaf. We would come to break the nightmare. She would fight it until then._

 _Yes!_ , Solas' voice, suddenly in his mind, triumphant. _Da'Assan, resourceful as ever! This is where we cross. Let go._ The next moment, something pulled him over the edge and he fell through darkness, through clouds and shadows and a whirl of colour. He hit solid ground with a force that made him wonder if this could truly be a dream, because the impact knocked the breath right from his lungs. Cullen gasped and came to his feet. Solas was there beside him, although he looked different. Instead of his plain linen attire, he wore a black wolf's pelt around his shoulders, even complete with the head, which served as a sort of hood. It distinctly reminded him of something he'd seen before, but he could not recall what.

"You look strange.", Cullen commented, to which Solas bared wolfish teeth, sharp and pointed.

"You should see yourself.", the elf answered in a humourless tone. "Remember what I said, symbols and metaphors? In this world, I may look closer to my spirit self, or just the way _Da'Assan_ sees me." He realized that Solas had not spoken the last thing out loud.

 _Not necessary, but you seem troubled if I share my thoughts into your mind. Pardon the intrusion. At some point, we might have no other choice._

Cullen looked around then. They were standing on an endless plain that stretched into all directions, disappearing behind fog and smoke in the distance. Ruins littered the whole field, some of them still smouldering from fires of devastation long past, and yet… He could smell it, the scent of war, stinging and ugly. A grey and overcast sky loomed above, and when Cullen looked up, snowflakes touched his face, clung to his hair.

 _Not snowflakes, ashes_. Solas sounded worried. They walked through the ruins together and it soon became clear that these were the remnants of a battlefield. Bodies everywhere, broken and bloody. Inquisition soldiers, their dead eyes staring to the skies they could not see. Cullen felt laden with grief, as though he was pulling some heavy cart along with every step. He remembered what Shenlira had told him about her nightmare: _I see what happens if I fail_. This wasteland, the aftermath of a war she had sent them into. A decision gone wrong, and having to look into the eyes of the dead and face the guilt.

 _Yes. This is the first layer of her nightmare. Pressure is all around, like a thing alive. Breathing guilt, shame, despair_ … Solas wore a grim expression beneath his wolf hood. Cullen shuddered when something passed through him, a cold presence that seemed to linger, cling to his bones. Whispers of familiar voices reached his ears, accusing or pained, their words not distinguishable. He did not need Solas' explanation to recognize the spirits of close companions, haunting the wasteland and unable to find rest, doomed to walk here for an eternity and torment Shenlira.

From the fog beyond, a giant shadow stepped and moved towards them. Solas halted, signalling him to stay still. The silhouette looked like a massive, antlered stag, its body seamless black, a night sky forsaken by stars. Yet as the figure came closer, they realized it was a Halla, its disfigured horns bound with chains and sprouting spikes of bleached bone. Reminiscent of the feathers of a raven, its obsidian coat bristled in a silent wind.

 _A sentry…? Is it hers or the demon's? Something about it seems… Suffering._ But Solas fell silent when the stag suddenly turned its head and pierced them with a fathomless stare. Such malice and… wrongness in those eyes, it sent cold chills down Cullen's spine. And yet he pitied the thing but could not say why.

"Intruders. Fade-walker… Demon-killer. You shall never pass. This is _my_ realm!", the sentry spoke with Shenlira's voice and yet not hers at all – a perversion of her true voice, distorted by the demon's madness. Its great antlered head lowered, a clear challenge, ready to charge at them. Cullen flinched from the sight of the bone spikes and studded chains, but Solas gripped his arm and held him back.

"No! This sentry blocks us from going deeper. It is as much the demon's as it is Shenlira's, look!", speaking aloud, he pointed at the stag. As Cullen watched, a ripple of pure white dashed along the creature's back, for a moment clearing it of all evil before it disappeared again. _Fleeting…_ He glimpsed her, just barely, in that tiny ripple and understood a bit better what Solas had meant by metaphors and symbols in this world.

"I think… I think you have to let it charge at you. Keep in mind, the lion cannot be defeated by the stag. Will that thought to be, and even if its antlers pierce you, you will not die, but… go on." Cullen wished the damned mage would for once speak plain words, because _willing something to be_ was not exactly a specific instruction. Going on was vague too.

"Go on where?! And what about you?", he demanded. The sentry was coming at them. At first in a measured stride, yet soon the stag accelerated to a break-neck speed, hooves beating the ground like thunder. It would run them down.

"Further into the nightmare of course! I knew we would be separated at some point, either by the demon's walls or Shenlira's. I am not welcome into the deeper parts of her mind, but you are. Even when tormented by the demon, she managed to keep a back door open for us. Do not worry, I will be able to speak to you to some degree. And Cole will be with you." Solas let him go then and jumped back as the stag bore down on Cullen.

He tried to do what the mage had suggested, but by the Maker was it hard when a giant beast charged at him, unholy eyes glowing like embers from another world. Every instinct told him to fight. He ignored them all. No, this was not the real world and he wasn't fighting a demon with a sword. _I am Sajnalin. I shall never bend to the will of the stag or be gored by its antlers_. The beast reached him just as he closed his eyes. Spikes of bone pierced his chest. Gashing, splitting, impaling. A moment of wrecking agony, before he was thrown to the ground, but met no resistance. Instead, he fell again.

* * *

An endless, star-strewn sky stretched beneath him and his fall felt almost weightless. Then, patches of colour started to rush by, bright things like ribbons in a woman's hair. Banners in the wind. As soon as he focused on one of them, it seemed to widen, until Cullen looked through it as a man would look through a window into a crowded tavern. He saw a red-headed little girl run across a meadow, a tall grown woman in elven clothes calling out to her. A room, small and cluttered with dried flowers, bright threads, a loom taking up almost a whole side of it. Three elves in their teens, sneaking through a village in a thrilling search for adventure, stealing small items and laughing as they went. Scenes shifted constantly and Cullen watched with fascination, caught in the swirling memories, for he knew this was what they were. Most of them had a sad tint, an undercurrent of things long past, lost in a careless age. Instead, more recent ones rose to take their place. He watched people stretching out their hands as Shenlira rode by, begging her to help with this and that. The memory turned awry and suddenly the hands were grabbing and tearing at her, pulling her under to be trampled beneath the crowd. Cullen tried to push through them to help her, but the scene changed and now he was looking at his own face across the war table. He couldn't remember ever having worn such an expression of demand and scorn. Leliana and Josephine were there too, the same sneer distorting their features. _Something is not right about this, this has never happened_. It had to be the demon's taint, his twisting of the true memories, but Cullen still felt Shenlira's hurt at the disdain from those she trusted most, a feeling of abandonment that rang out like a forlorn lament. Endlessly, the scenes rushed past him and these were all saturated by despair, made to strip her of all hope. Soldiers who had trusted her, now eyeing her with hatred, accusation. Lives cut short and ended because she had sent them into an ambush. Dead companions, her own clan declaring war on her and the Inquisition.

 _Be careful. I sense your distress. You feel for her, share her emotions as though they were your own. If you let it too close, it will pull you down with it. Float on its surface instead and find where she is truly calling you._ Solas' voice came from far away, speaking from the end of a long tunnel. Then another appeared out of nowhere, so close that Cullen startled.

"Yes. She calls us. To a place of shame, hurt. Look beyond the evil, twisted things. They are illusions. Something that truly was is beneath.", Cole said right next to him. Cullen tried, although he had no idea how to do such a thing. He did the one thing he could think of, he closed his eyes to the vortex of memories and let his mind reach for Shenlira.

 _What do you want to show me, Lira? What torments you so? Whatever it is, I will destroy it._

A faint voice – her voice – answered, not more than a whisper. _Over here_. Cullen opened his eyes to a wide window of dark green. A forest at night, lush leaf-crowns swaying in a cool, late summer breeze. On a small clearing, the distinct silhouette of an aravel stood, bathed in moonlight. As soon as he focused on the picture, he felt a great jerk pull him right into it. Again, he landed uncomfortably hard, this time on mossy undergrowth. He straightened and took a deep breath of the night air. It felt so real, he almost forgot that it was not, until Cole spoke beside him.

"This memory is old. Buried, forgotten, pushed deeply down. The last secret she holds.", the spirit said.

The aravel sails were shaped into a tent at its side, supported by unseen wooden columns. Cullen walked to the entrance and heard muffled voices. He wondered if he had some sort of physical form in this memory, but Cole simply stepped through the tent wall and so he followed. He'd seem short glimpses of the inside before. A great loom stood against the far side, dried flowers, grasses and other herbs hung in every free space. His heart made a strange leap when he saw Shenlira seated at a small table, cluttered with herbalist items. She could not be more than eleven or twelve winters old. Still, the shape of her face was already growing from the childish features, which were now set in a distinct pout. Small fingers traced the mortar and pestle while she eyed the intricate sheath of a knife next to it.

"It's just for a few hours, little love. The night lily only blooms during the full moon, you know that. You like the white dye I make from it, no?", a tall woman who resembled Shenlira so much it was haunting spoke in a gentle voice. The same heart-shaped face, the same rich, red hair. Only her eyes, a striking shade of green, and the white tattoos on her brow marked her as someone else. _Her mother_. Cullen had heard her mention her mother only twice – once, Shenlira had told him that she'd died at a young age. The other time, the night he had first seen the burn marks on her back, she'd said that her mother had perished in that same fire. Nothing more. Why hadn't that ever struck him as odd…? Now, he watched the young Shenlira sigh in a defeated sort of way, as though she could not argue her mother's point. The woman helped her through a small door into the aravel's inner chamber, to a tiny bunk with piled blankets, just wide enough for a child. He noted how they were all embroidered in the same style, Halla and wolves and other animals leaping lifelike across the fabric. Shenlira's mother sang her to sleep with an elven lullaby, and the scene was so sweet that Cullen dreaded what he would see next. He had a sense of awful foreboding, unable to say where it came from. But the woman only stood after the girl was sound asleep and tucked in, then picked up a basket and left the aravel to stroll down a moonlit path into the forest. He could not fathom why she left her daughter completely alone, also where was her father? Why were they all alone, did the clans not travel and camp together? But all those questions went unanswered as the scene suddenly shifted, although the only change he could make out was that the moon had moved a good deal farther along the night sky. And yet his senses tingled with awareness. Hoofbeats, from at least a dozen horses, thudding through the underbrush. Tap-tap-tap. They were trying to stay silent, no easy feat with such a number. Torches flickered between the tree-trunks, and then suddenly, three men on impressive battle-mounts rode into the clearing. Cullen choked when he saw their chests emblazoned with a winged skyward sword.

 _Templars?! What in the Maker's_ – Abruptly, the man in the lead turned in the saddle and he realized he'd seen him before… _Where? Redcliffe, Calenhad, Kirkwall? Kirkwall… But no, that could not be…_ It made no sense. With horror, Cullen watched as the leader called for a mage, a short man with a thin face, who he commanded to set the aravel on fire.

"No!", Cullen yelled, knowing Shenlira was in there. Of course, he could do nothing. Flames engulfed the tent and the aravel, blazing high into the night sky. Shenlira must have woken and started screaming for her mother, as one of the templars, a man about fifty with greying temples, slid from his horse immediately.

"There is a child in there!", he called to the leader, whose horse bristled at the accusation in the other man's yell.

"Impossible! The wretched woman would never have the heart for a child!", said the leader, his voice filled with a deep-rooted ire, and now Cullen truly recognized him: Knight-Captain Marcus Vilerian. He'd been quite a legend in the order, mainly for his obsession to hunt down the notorious blood-made Mar'Alenna, a maleficar who had disappeared about the time when…. But he could not finish that thought. Shenlira struggled through the burning drapes of the tent. Something caught her feet and she stumbled. Grabbing the drapes, she ripped them down with her and dropped the music box she'd been clutching in her hands. The support column, unstable from the flames that ate at it, toppled over and fell. It hit the girl across the back and bore her to the ground. This was how it had happened. Searing embers burned through the thin fabric of her nightgown and branded her skin. That wound would never fully disappear, its mark would remain forever. _Young, so young to be hurt like this_ – The cry of pain undid him, but the old templar was with her before he was. It took him a minute to somehow lift the burning column from Shenlira, when a howl like a banshee's ripped the air apart. Her mother stood at the edge of the clearing, face a mask of horror and rage. The basket full of night lilies dropped to the ground as she ran, screaming, to her daughter. The old templar was flung aside like a doll – _Magic, rabid and unrestrained_. Cullen sensed the powerful abilities of a mage with no reservations, but it seemed almost clumsy, as though she had not used them in a long time. Like the strike of a hammer, the realization hit him. The woman reached for Shenlira, not daring to touch the burns on her back but instead putting her hands on her daughter's face, tears spilling over from her green eyes.

"Blood of my blood, my little star - No! What have you done?! Bastards!", she wailed in desolation. Then, within an instant, she changed. _Forsake everything. Embrace the end._ Almost all of his life he'd been trained to detect the signs of demons trying to possess mages. Cullen knew what would come next, and a part of him wanted to avert his eyes, for it would be horrible… But he owed it to Shenlira. Exactly as he suspected Shenlira's mother, did not struggle, even invited ruin, welcomed it. She thought her daughter dead, killed by templars, and nothing would keep her from revenge. A presence of great power swooped down into her spirit, and she ripped a dagger from its sheath on her belt, plunging it deeply into her arm. Blood gushed from the wound, but before splattering everything around, it flowed and surrounded her. Magic, powerful from years of pent-up, unused energy, engulfed Mar'Alenna like a scarlet chrysalis. And what remained when that bloody shell shattered was something Cullen knew only too well, having had first-hand experience of a Circle destroyed by it. An abomination rose from the crushed mind of the maleficar who, somehow, impossibly, had been Shenlira's mother. A demon of rage and grief, created by the killing of the one thing she held dearest: her daughter. In the moments when Cullen watched the abomination dismantle three templars on the spot, while the others fought desperately to contain it, he understood it all. Mar'Alenna, who'd sought peace and redemption in a quiet life, in her little love, her only daughter. Just to be hunted down by templars after fifteen years of hiding. _What a terrible mess… Why, brothers, did you do such a thing?_ There was no justice in it. No honour. _Only contempt bred by contempt bred by..._ In an endless circle that wreaked havoc on everything in its path. All things wrong with this divided world were right there, in this memory. With many casualties, they managed to destroy the monster. Afterwards, they set fire to the bloody heap and sang a prayer for her soul. But Marcus did not sing. He watched with grim satisfaction as the body burned. Neither did the old templar. The man wrapped Shenlira inside his cloak, gingerly lifting her into his arms, before he turned to Marcus and pierced him with a cold, hard stare.

"You will never hide what you have done today from the Maker's judgement. Ten years, and for what? We killed a woman who had renounced her ways. You felt it too. It was the first time in over a decade that she did magic. This was no righteous act. This was murder.", he spoke in a deep voice, saturated by disgust.

"She became an abomination in front of our very eyes! Cassian, you saw how many she struck down with a single blow!", Marcus snapped, his eyes glinting mercilessly.

"Because she thought we killed her daughter.", Cassian looked at him, incredulous.

"As we should have done! She could become just like her mother, a monster. It's in her blood.", the Knight-Captain spoke with a conviction that made Cassian flinch.

"I can't believe your words, brother. Is this what you would lead us to do, what you think the templar's duty is? Kill innocent children because of their parents' sins? This came from your misguided thirst for revenge. Betrayal has left you with nothing else, only a sense of superiority and righteousness in your ire. I won't follow such a man. And I will take this girl to safety. To her father. Consider this my resignation from the order. If people like you are to be our leaders… There is nothing here for me.", the old templar looked at Marcus as though seeing him for the first time. Maybe he was. The Knight-Captain opened his mouth to speak, but then shook his head and made a dismissive gesture, turning back to the funeral pyre with a stony face.

"Begone, old man. And take that creature far away.", he said. Cullen watched Cassian carry Shenlira, who had long fallen unconscious from the pain of her burns, away from the scene of destruction. But before he disappeared with her into the shadow of the night, he picked up the music box she had so desperately tried to rescue, and settled it into her limp hands.

 _I feel your sorrow like a bleeding wound. What happened? What did you see, Sajnalin?,_ Solas' voice sounded troubled. Cullen bristled at the casual use of that intimate name, but he doubted that the elf knew he was trespassing a private boundary by calling it.

 _Pardon… I did not know. That was personal._ , this with a peculiar astonishment, _Las'amelin, the ritual of naming to declare a bond. This… guidance lets me see certain parts of you. I am not being intrusive on purpose._

 _It's… disconcerting, but thank you. I know you are going through great risks to help me._ , Cullen answered.

 _What did you see? Just now, I felt… Such a strong rush of sorrow. But you were so focused on something that I saw only blurred shapes. I could not make sense of it. A fire? Terrible pain, rage…_ , Solas' voice flickered as though something interfered with their connection.

 _Shenlira's mother… she was a blood mage. And not just any one, but Mar'Alenna, a mage prodigy of her time. She turned apostate and escaped her Circle, then made herself a name as one of the most ruthless maleficar in the north. But, some time after that, she simply… disappeared. There was a templar who swore to hunt her to the ends of the earth. His name was Marcus Vilerian. It all went so wrong…_ He let the images of what he had seen fill his mind. By now he understood how to communicate in this strange way.

 _Mar'Alenna. It means Weave of Fate. Such a lyrical name… She renounced her ways, even sealed herself against magic, I think. She wanted to live in peace, but fate caught up with her. So she invited rage to tear her apart, because she could not bear the light of her life extinguished_. Cullen felt him sigh somewhere far away, up on the wasteland where the sentry patrolled. The connection thinned for a moment as Solas concealed his true thoughts, but the general message still carried over, a whiff on the wind. The man who guided him did neither wallow nor grieve. He merely witnessed with a profound knowledge that the lines between good and evil were never clearly drawn. They blurred, sloppy, messy. Still, the intelligent mind joined to his resented both Mar'Alenna and Marcus for their careless abandonment of reason. Cullen agreed, dropping his gaze.

 _Blood of my blood…_ , he said softly and a glint between the dark tufts of grass caught his eye. The dagger. When he picked it up – for some reason able to touch it –, he saw the ancient elven runes, the darkened blade imbued with many sacrifices.

 _It's the same,_ Solas' thought mingled with his own, but he could make no sense of it. How did the dagger come into Mar'Alenna's possession in the first place, and who took it after she had died? But even if he did not understand that part of the story, he suddenly felt a presence draw near. It was faint, almost unnoticeable, but so familiar, a part of him. He could sense a vast bitterness, a rain of shameful tears, and he ached inside for not being able to reach out and comfort her. She hovered in front of him, a translucent, pale image.

"Blood of her blood, cursed to repeat her fate.", Shenlira whispered. A ghostly hand reached forth, hovered over the dagger with a finger pointed at his heart. "Below, through blood and shame. The last layer." Then, out of nowhere, an invisible blade cut through her ethereal form and it dissolved with a faint cry, countless butterflies scattered to the wind. Cullen knew what the demon used to torment her now. The shame of being the daughter, descendant of a blood mage, a woman with no conscience who had let rage rip her to shreds in the end, who had betrayed her father who never knew her for what she truly was, and left behind a child branded, a child wearing her face. Holding that thought, that feeling of shame and magnifying it, letting it overtake him, Cullen turned the dagger so the blade pointed right at his chest. _Maker, I hope this works_.

 _Spirits guide you, and I pray you are not wrong_., he heard Solas' voice while Cole nodded beside him. With a forceful jolt, he stabbed the dagger right into his own heart. Blood gushed onto the grass, gleaming black in the moonlight. He sank to his knees. Darkness took him and he fell one last time, right into the deepest layer of the nightmare.


	11. XI Willpower

_Great feelings were had by the author while writing this. I know I wrote some Cullen-that-HERO-appreciation in the last note, but this is where I really made him shine and brought out that force-of-nature-like character, so I'll just fawn a bit longer. I also have to note here that I really liked how Solas turned out in the whole of this story. It might be a bit unusual, that he builds a friendship towards Cullen, but writing it like this felt genuine. As always, enjoy!_

 **XI. Willpower**

 _Safe and solid, protecting and proud. He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him.  
Cole_

* * *

Cullen came to awareness inside deep shadow, enveloping him like a thick fog. Each breath felt as though he was inhaling tar. Darkness cloaked the surroundings, and yet he could make out shapes, lit by eerie, flickering blue lights. The place looked similar to the throne room in Skyhold, and at the same time it was nothing alike – the strange blueish flames gave no warmth to it as the hearthfires had always done. Instead, they made everything seem cold and forlorn. The tables which usually flanked the walkway were abandoned, the doors on the sides shut tight and barricaded. Strange thorny vines lined the steps up to the impressive elevated platform, curling around the distinct, spiked Inquisitor throne. It was not empty. Shenlira was seated on it, clad in a long black dress, both breathtakingly beautiful and morbidly obscene. The silk clung so snugly to her slender figure, it seemed constricting. Velvet cords criss-crossed along the deep neckline, elaborate lace framing the pale skin of her shoulders and wrists. She would never have worn something like that on her own accord. In a regal pose she sat the throne, her head slightly inclined to one side as though she was sleeping, the blue light casting ghostly shadows on her still face.

Cullen could neither hear Solas anymore, nor did he glimpse Cole anywhere around him _. I am alone_. Or so he thought, until he tried to take a step forward. The whole ground seemed to tremble violently and something moved in the shadows the blue flames did not illuminate, something big. The light skipped over seamless scales for just a heartbeat as the body of some giant beast coiled all around the room lazily, the sound of its sinister slither raising every hair on his neck. Cullen caught one look at a gleaming red eye in the blackness, the pupil just a narrow, malignant slit piercing him with its stare.

"So, you came this far, demon-slayer…", a low hiss spoke from the gloom, its tone amused. "But how far would you have made it without help? Spirits and Fade-walkers aided your descent into madness. And then my puppet, left unattended for just a moment…" Shenlira flinched, her face contorted by pain. Cullen lunged forward.

"Lira! Let her go!", he cried out, but in vain. Evil tendrils broke from the ground and wrapped around his arms and legs, forcing him to his knees. _No! I cannot fail now! Not after everything-_

"Who do you think you are, making demands here? This is my domain! Everything you have seen was my design! Such beauty she is, my puppet. Her despair and anguish sustained me, and I fed her own shame back to her until it festered like a tumour. Would you like to see its perfection?", the demon gave a horrible cackle, enjoyment rippling through it as Shenlira cried out in terror.

"Mother! Your curse made me go to hell! You took all those lives, how could you?! How could leave me in bedlam?", she went rigid on the throne for a second and buckled over as though shaken by a seizure, then laughed uncontrollably. It was a sound beyond sanity. "I can't fight it anymore. It was always inside me! I'll be just like you now!" Cullen tore at his restraints like a madman, but they would not budge. He felt a wave of despair, threatening to bury him beneath its depths as he watched the woman he loved writhe from the agony the demon put her through.

"No, Lira! You are nothing like that! Don't believe those lies! Your mother wasn't evil, not anymore. She may have walked a wrong path, but you were the reason she stopped! She loved you, more than life itself. What happened to her was a terrible tragedy-", he was cut off when Shenlira suddenly stood and turned her eyes on him. They glowed with demonic madness, but also a wretched hurt he had never wanted to see in them – as though glimpsing the ghost of a loved one, swamped in grief. Didn't she understand that there was no way she could have prevented the chain of events that had led to her mother's downfall? That she needn't bear the weight of that heritage?

"Silence! Stop your filthy lies!", she screamed, voice and expression both unhinged. She moved like a puppet on a string, sketchy and disconnected, pointing an accusing finger at him. "You are not real! I watched you die a hundred times – no. You are another illusion. He told me everything. There could never be anyone like you for me. I was always alone! Because of what I am. The shameful legacy of a murderer, an abomination." As she spoke those heart-breaking words, her arms rose slowly. The demon looked at him from her eyes while she drew back the black bow that had manifested in her hands, an arrow aimed directly at his chest. Had he come too late? Had his whole journey through the nightmare been for naught? Was she already lost to him, claimed by lies and deceit?

A small voice spoke to him from a distant place, and Cullen did not know if it was his own or Solas, or Cole – or wishful thinking that somehow merged all of those together:

 _Will the truth to be._

 _Yes_ , he thought _. I can do that_. If nothing else, he would will all he felt for her to reach her, in this dreadful, desolate place.

"You are not an abomination.", he said through the vines slowly choking him, rendering his resistance futile. "I came all the way through the veil between the worlds for you. My Lira, my wild spirit who I chased across the sunlit clearing, your laughter brighter than that light..." The darkness in her eyes flickered when he conjured that memory in his mind, her face suddenly uncertain, the grip on her bow trembling. The demon's clutch on her spirit faltered ever so slightly and Cullen could sense its rage. The claws he had buried deeply in her flexed, yet at the same time they loosened their stranglehold.

"No… That did not happen. It couldn't have-", she shuddered and he glimpsed her old self flash across the distorted features. The demon hissed in menace, but Cullen kept going. He had no idea if it would work – if such a thing was even possible, but he called forth every true and joyous memory he had of her. He commanded them to be, by sheer willpower, imparting on them the honest truth that he loved her, just as a sculptor shaped a piece of clay. The expression on her face after the first kiss they had shared. Her laughter when he'd danced with her to the Barefoot Maiden. The peace and harmony he had felt when she had fallen asleep by his side. He summoned the woman that she was from those images, the Lira whose lively, untamed innocence could not be tarnished by hatred and contempt. And then he threw all of it at her with a force so strong, he knew not where it came from.

" _NOOOO! Filthy human, you destroy everything!_ ", the demon's voice thundered inside his head. Shenlira cried out and lowered the bow, a hand gripping her face as though he'd struck her. Her eyes went wide between her spread fingers, clearing of all fog, all malice tormenting her, before they found his face. Grey framed by a dark blue ring, as he had always known them.

"Cullen… I don't know what is real… It's so dark here…" A feeble, pleading whisper. He reached for her, and the thorny tendrils could not hold him captive any longer. Doubt worked both ways – as she doubted the nightmare, it weakened. His hand touched hers, gently pulling the rigid fingers away from her face.

"I love you. That is real. As real as a thing could ever be. I will never leave you to face the darkness alone." The moment he spoke those words, Shenlira closed her eyes and he felt something shatter inside her. Light broke through the endless shadows around them, the room suddenly blindingly bright. Dawn had come. An unearthly scream went up, cutting through flesh and bone, the demon unmasked as what he was: A giant black snake that had wrapped itself around her spirit and squeezed the life from it. But now it hissed and spit in agony before going utterly immobile, as though turned to stone. Shenlira's arrow hit the horror right through the eye, and the demon's death-scream reverberated through every layer of the spirit realm. Its body splintered like a glass sculpture, into thousands upon thousands of obsidian shards. They rained down with an alien beauty, taking with them the clouds of despair, the darkness and the barriers built by the wretched creature.

In front of Cullen's eyes, the surroundings changed rapidly from the gloomy throne room to a radiant meadow bathed in soft light. The tormented Shenlira from the nightmare dissolved to reveal a translucent, shining spirit that floated before him. With the illusion broken and the demon destroyed, Cullen felt the presence of Solas and Cole close to him once more, but he paid them no heed. He stretched out his arms and caught her as she sank against him, warm and soft, like a little candle during the darkest night.

" _Vhenan_ … I knew you would come.", her spirit form whispered, and that boundless trust made him feel invincible. He would never falter, never risk failing that precious faith that granted him the strength to face any adversity. She gave a sigh and rested her golden head on his chest. "It was so dark and cold for so long... I am so tired… Can I go to sleep now?", she asked thinly. He bowed and held her close, throat too tight to speak just then. All he managed was a nod.

"I can't believe he has done it… Not by magic, but the sheer will to protect. A force of nature, that strength…", Solas stood some distance away, looking out over the meadow from beneath his hood. Beside him, Cole glanced at the couple that seemed oblivious to their presence.

"This is not for us, Shadow Wolf. She bids us to leave." And with no more than that, they were flung from the nightmare-turned-dream. Back into their bodies waiting in the real world, leaving the two a moment of peace just for themselves.

"Am I truly not like her? All these years, I held that secret… Like chains around my heart. I couldn't bear to tell you…", the spirit Shenlira hid her face in her hands, her voice quivering. Cullen shushed her gently. The last thing he wanted after these days was to cause her distress.

"Don't fret about that now. Remember what you told me after my episode? Nothing has changed about the way I see you. Your mother lives in you, but not as a shameful legacy. You brought out the good in her and she gave you the parts that were pure… and loving, right to the end. You know that, right? After all, you kept that music box for all these years, and her songs.", he said quietly, his lips feathering over her brow. Somewhere, far away in the real world, he heard people call out to him to _'Wake, goddamn pseudo-templar!_ '. Their agitated demands buzzed around his head like annoying flies.

"I have loved and hated her for so long… Having told someone is… freeing. And exhausting.", she took a deep breath and as she let it out, he sensed many conflicted emotions leaving her with it. Then she looked up at him, a tired sort of smile on her glowing spirit-features.

"You said you loved me. Say it again, please?" With those words, he knew she was herself again, spirit or not, real world or dream – it was so like her it made his heart overflow.

"When you wake up, I'll say it as many times as you'd like.", he answered and brushed a small kiss to the top of her head.

"Yes… I can feel them rattling at your mind's walls like barbarians… Go and wake for now. I will finally sleep…", Shenlira whispered, voice already fading. "You know… Here, you look even more like Sajnalin." Cullen felt her do something, a gentle push, and suddenly the sky above rushed downwards – or maybe he rushed upwards, it was hard to say. The next he knew, he was slammed back into his body and woke with a jolt, almost losing his grip on Shenlira's body. Voices erupted all around him as soon as he opened his eyes.

"I can't believe you did such a colossally reckless, dangerous thing without even discussing it with us! I have half a mind to thrash you!", Cassandra burst out. She stood in a fuming rigor next to Solas, who sat at the edge of the bed, quite tranquil. Cole was cross-legged on the floor, Varric right beside him.

"And after she is done, I'll have a go.", the dwarf added acidly. Leliana cut in from the opposite bedside.

"Did it work?!", the spymaster asked, her tone sharp. Cullen looked down at Shenlira. She was lost in a bottomless, healing slumber. He felt no distress inside her through the connection that was slowly fading now, only a bone-deep weariness and sense of safety that she could finally, finally let her guard down.

"Yes.", he said quietly, reminding them all to keep their voices low. The companions had the decency to look embarrassed. "A demon of despair held her. It is gone now." A stunned silence met his words, and he could see that they were trying to fight down numerous questions that yearned to be asked. Their earnest concern moved him deeply, but right now all he wanted was a few undisturbed hours by Shenlira's side, for this ordeal had made him so incredibly tired. There was a strange irony in that, for his physical body had done nothing but sleep, yet his mind felt drained of all energy. Cullen sighed, searching for a polite way to disperse the gathered audience, but Solas pre-empted him.

"Cullen journeyed into the deepest part of her nightmare and, with great risks to himself, made her see the demon's deceit. Shenlira was able to destroy the demon after she was shown its true nature. An extremely taxing task for both of them and I'm sure the Commander will answer all your questions in the morning. If you wish, I can tell you what I have seen while guiding him, but I can assure you, the danger has passed. We should leave them to rest for tonight.", the mage spoke in a measured voice as always, yet also with a slight hint of awe that baffled Cullen. The others left reluctantly, and not before ordering all sorts of comforts to be arranged, bickering who would be the first to visit tomorrow.

"Wait, please.", Cullen spoke to Cole as much as to Solas, who were the last to rise. The boy turned curiously, his strange gaze on Shenlira.

"She is crying.", he noted in a soft whisper. Both Cullen and Solas looked down to find his words true. A slow stream of tears had made its way from the corners of her closed eyes, meandering like drops of dew into the strands of hair at her temple. Cullen gently brushed one away. She did not stir. It heartened him that her skin felt neither feverishly hot nor sickly cold, just the same warm temperature he was used to.

"Not despair, or fear. Only relief, relief, bright like a sun. We helped.", Cole said with pride. Cullen nodded decisively.

"You did. Both of you. I don't know how to thank you. Without your guidance…", he trailed away, unable to finish the thought. If they had not helped him through the nightmare, the demon would have claimed Shenlira's spirit and she would have been lost to him forever. He drew a shuddering breath. Solas and Cole seemed to understand him without words.

"You give yourself too little credit, _lethallen_. We did what we could to guide you, but what you accomplished in the deepest layer of the nightmare, you did on your own. It was willpower of such strength that I felt it echo through the Fade as spirits turned and listened to the song of your reality. They attuned and sang it back at you, wishing that you would succeed…", the mage said in a wistful tone, but at Cullen's confused, almost embarrassed look, he gave a slight, rueful smile. "I apologize. I get carried away when I talk about wonders I have seen in the Fade. And this was definitely a thing to behold. Your name… the _Las'Amelin_ she gave you, it has been chosen well." Cullen met Solas' gaze and hoped that his honest gratitude would not go unnoticed.

"You can use it, if you like. You walked the nightmare with me and to some extent we shared thoughts… Although there is much that I don't understand, I wish to call you… friend.", his words were met by an expression of astonishment from Solas, but he very aptly composed himself an instant later.

"Friend… No human has called me that before. I would welcome it from you. Will you call me by the name _Da'Assan_ has given me?", he spoke cautiously, as though this was some yet unknown ground to him. Cullen nodded. Having shared both a little of Solas' thoughts and walked the landscape of Shenlira's mind, he knew well the _Las'Amelin_ she had given the enigmatic mage who she felt was a kindred spirit.

"Rest well, Sajnalin.", Solas said quietly as he turned to leave. Cole had of course long since vanished from the spot.

"And you, Wolf Brother.", Cullen answered just before the door fell shut.

* * *

Shenlira slept all through the night and the whole next day, well into the late hours of evening, without so much as turning from one side to the other. Cullen knew that her body and mind needed the time to recuperate from the journey to the brink of death, but he couldn't help worrying that she might not wake after all. He sat at her desk in the candlelight, working through some half-finished troop orders in the hope to distract himself. Cassandra and Leliana had reacted very differently to his accounts about the spirit journey he'd undertaken to break the nightmare. While the seeker had at some point accepted the fact that the demon had been destroyed, Leliana stayed suspicious as ever, insisting that they searched for signs it might return. She was also adamant to find the assassin who had concocted the whole plan – which Cullen fully encouraged. There were too many questions left unanswered. He'd told the two women and Varric about the origin of Shenlira's mother, but had extracted a solemn oath of confidentiality from all three– not that he'd needed to. They were now three of the six people in the world who knew the secret she had managed to keep for almost all of her life.

And yet Cullen had the nagging feeling that someone else had known, the person who had acquired the same dagger Mar'Alenna had used to empower herself in an ultimate sacrifice, calling upon a demon of rage to consume her. Also, what happened to Marcus Vilerian after he finally had gotten his revenge? It was rumoured that he'd left the order years ago and nobody had seen or heard from him since then. Cullen tasked Leliana to dig up anything she could find about both Shenlira's mother and Marcus. Even more importantly, they needed to unravel the history of that cursed dagger. The spymaster was only too eager to get to the bottom of this failed assassination plan, and she was aided by each and every member of Shenlira's inner circle. They viewed the attempt on her life as the greatest possible insult. Cullen couldn't have agreed more. He knew they would not rest until the people responsible were caught and subjected to judgement, most likely one carried out with the sharp end of a sword. Oh, and he would be the first in that line, make no mistake.

* * *

Shenlira felt like she was emerging from the bottom of a deep, black lake, floating slowly upwards, weightless, calm. As the fractures of light shimmered through the mirror-like surface above her, she became aware of her physical body in stages. First came the strange, feeble sort of discomfort that told her she had gone through some arduous illness. Muscles were sore, limbs heavy, skin tender. Then she noticed her senses were dulled as if she had not used them for some time. Eyelids resisting her will to open, sound and scent reaching her from some far-away place. A quill scratching over parchment, the smell of fresh logs on a fire, warm, soft blankets wrapped around her. _Time to wake_ , she commanded herself. As soon as she had made that decision, she yearned to take it back. A sharp, stinging pain in her side almost robbed her of breath. The dagger. She'd been struck by a dagger. For a few moments, she stayed completely still, until the pain faded somewhat and became bearable. The wound seemed several days old, making her wonder how long she'd been unconscious. Judging by the complete physical weakness she felt now that she was awake, Shenlira reckoned that she must have been very sick for a time. Memories of terrible, feverish fits came back to her. She'd lashed out beyond sanity, screamed herself hoarse, spending precious energy, and Cullen… he had been there, every time, trying to calm her, even begging by the end. _Please stop, be still, you are breaking my heart, you are killing yourself_ –

 _Oh, what grief I must have caused him_. She remembered the horrors she had seen but her mind shied away from the details. They had done something to her then, made her… still, silent, and Shenlira had wailed at them not to leave her alone with the thing, the monster that clawed and choked and strangled her alive. It had felt like the end, like she would simply give in to that force of despair, and then Cullen was with her in the darkness. As if pulling off a blindfold, he had chased away the shadows so she could see what held her captive. It had been his resolve that had broken the demon's maze of lies.

Shenlira opened her eyes to the dimly-lit, familiar surroundings of her quarters. Night-time. She lay in bed, enfolded by several blankets. The innermost of them was Cullen's cloak, its scent of sandalwood like a reassurance that she was completely safe now. Yet that paled compared to what she felt at the sight of him sitting at her desk. Her heart turned over inside her chest when she saw how exhausted he looked while his quill scratched away on the parchment, a deep frown on his brow. Worry and strain seemed to have put new lines onto his face, making him seem older and somehow… withered, as though he hadn't eaten or slept in days. Had he stayed by her side through all of her illness? Had nobody taken care of him, of all the overbearing people who called themselves friends? She filed the resolution to rebuke them away for later. When she tried to swallow before speaking, a bone-dry throat thwarted her. She made another attempt, but only a strange, garbled noise came out. _Frustrating!_ Cullen's eyes snapped up from the report he'd been writing. He stood so quickly that he knocked over a vase of fresh wildflowers, rushing to her side.

"Lira! Maker's breath – Oh, Lira – no, don't try to get up, wait. Here.", his uneven words tumbled over themselves as he picked up a cup of water and held it to her lips. She gulped it down thirstily until it was empty, but shook her head when he moved to pour her more. "Enough for now?"

She barely had time to nod before he simply dropped it and she was swept into his arms. The embrace was both gentle, mindful of her dagger wound, and at the same time she felt his whole body tremble, desperately trying to control the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. One shaking hand settled high on her chest, where her heart beat, steady and calm. As if he needed that thud to assure him that he wasn't dreaming, about to wake up and find her lifeless in his arms. Cullen's hold loosened and Shenlira opened her mouth to speak, but the words were forever lost when he kissed her with such ardour, it left her stunned. His lips danced over her cheeks and eyelids and forehead, as though he'd thought he'd never see her again. Ultimately, he heaved a great sigh and seemed to collect himself. Shenlira blinked away the stray tears that had collected in the corners of her eyes and lifted her hands to his face.

"Oh, _vhenan_ … I worried you sick, haven't I? You look terrible. Will you ever forgive me?", her voice was hoarse from disuse, thick with guilt. His eyes fluttered shut at her touch and he shook his head decisively.

"Don't you even think such a thing. It's alright now. Everything is all right… You woke up, and you are my Lira again… That is all that matters to me.", he whispered this quietly against her lips, a palm covering the fingers on his cheek. For some reason, this made her cry even harder, in an unleashed, liberating way that frightened him all over again. It was as though all the feelings she had kept hidden deep inside now welled up and overflowed, unstoppable. The better part of an hour went by until the tears ceased and she calmed down, empty like a river run dry. Cullen let her. He just held her close, murmuring nonsense words of comfort, knowing that this too, was a part of healing from the nightmare and the things she had been put through there. When Shenlira's breathing had returned to normal, he coaxed her to drink another cup of water and fed her a few bites of sweet bread, but she soon shook her head in refusal.

"Just a few more. You are so terribly thin, and you were always lean as a willow tree to begin with. But the nightmare has left you with so little… One bite, and then I'll check on your wound.", he tried to wheedle her to eat some more, until a small nick appeared between her brows and she regarded him with a tired sort of annoyance.

" _Ar lath ma, vhenan_ , more than you know. But I might be sick all over you if you keep feeding me like that. Ah, I'm exhausted again… How can I be sleepy, it feels like I slept for years…", she wondered, oblivious to the stunned look on his face. He'd frozen in the movement of handing her a piece of bread.

"What did you say just now?", he interrupted her loud thinking, earning himself a quick, shy glance.

"That I might be sick all over you if…", she began in a deliberately innocent tone and he vengefully pushed the bread into her mouth. She chewed with grudging dignity.

"Before, silly. _Ar lath ma_ …?", Cullen repeated, to which Shenlira's gaze skittered away from his as he well knew it did when she was embarrassed. _Elusive as ever_.

"You know what that means. You studied elven, didn't you Sajnalin?", this in a sullen murmur. He touched her cheek gently, turning her so she would meet his eyes. That beautiful, heart-shaped face wore the aftermath of the attack clearly, paler than usual, sunken and tired. But still, the tiny blush of colour was so like her, it made him smile.

"Tell me anyway, my love. After all of this, how can you still be hesitant to look at me? Almost I have lost you… You could have…", he took a deep breath before he continued, "You could have left this world, all alone in the cold and dark, never knowing that I love you. I don't know if I could have gone on." The deep devotion she returned with her eyes brought a feeling of weakness to his heart, and at the same time infused him with a force barely contained. Such was the strange power of love.

" _Ar lath ma_. I love you too, Cullen. How can I not? With everything that happened, I realize how difficult I made things for you… My wild nature and my horrible past… And yet you still look at me like you did on that day in the clearing. I have put you through so much…", she fell silent and let out a sigh. Cullen kicked off his boots and climbed onto the soft mattress, lying down at her side. He lifted the blankets and assured himself that the fresh bandage the healers had renewed this afternoon was still in place and unsoiled. He leaned his head onto one hand and surveyed Shenlira with an intense look, dark brown eyes animated by the dancing fire-light.

"You have not put me through these things, Lira. Someone who had meant to hurt you did, and they will pay dearly for it, trust me. Your wild nature is one of the most wonderful things about you, never say that as if it were something bad. As for your past… I told you in the dream, what happened to you was a terrible tragedy. That templar who came for your mother… his judgement was clouded by revenge. It was all he knew anymore, I think. He'd been driven mad by the need to hunt her down. What a despicable man to call himself templar… If he had only left your family alone…", his voice was regretful and at the same time carried a tone of contempt. Shenlira reached up to stroke the week-old bristles on his chin. He hadn't shaved since the attack.

"If my mother had not done all those horrible things, he might not have come for her at all. I tried to avoid it, but over the years, I learned about her exploits. She was a true maleficar before, Cullen. She was evil. Imagine me, who I have only known her as a loving, gentle woman, reading about how she bled young mages dry to gain power. If I concentrate very, very hard, I can still feel her last touch on my face and smell my own burnt skin. How could I reconcile those two people with each other in my mind? It took years until I fully understood what happened. All the magical power that she had sealed inside her broke loose. She ceased to be mother and became… Rage. I could not see, but I felt it. There is seldom a stronger bond like that of a mother and a daughter. The change in her was… terrifying. I think that through the blood magic she used in that moment, she somehow imprinted that memory on me, making sure I would not forget. How I hated her for it, for never knowing which of her two personalities was the truth, and which the lie? I want to believe that she became a better person because of my father and me, I really do…", after having marred her voice with screams during her fits, she was quickly hoarse from her long tale. Cullen felt her distress rise again and gently shushed her when her breathing hitched fretfully.

"She should not have abandoned you. Irresponsibly, in such a terrible way. But… If you look deeply into that bond, you know what she truly imprinted on you, involuntarily. She cried her pain that you had been taken from her, pushed and battered it against everyone and everything around. I will not defend her actions and to judge her true nature is beyond me, Lira. But she loved you. If you believe nothing else about her, believe that. You know it to be true.", he watched her eyes close as she listened to his words.

"My mother liked to venture into the deeper forest for the herbs she used in her dyes. Sometimes it was just the two of us for days out there… She would sing while weaving, and I would shoot bright ribbons she hung up in the trees…", she trailed off, rubbing her eyes with a slight, annoyed sniff. "Cassian said something very similar to me as you just now. I did not believe him back then. He carried me to the clan's main camp, all through the night, and brought me to my father. He stayed until I recovered from my burns. Only the Keeper and my father were told the full truth about my mother's death, the others were told that a fire broke out in our aravel and she got caught in it, while Cassian – who was on patrol in the area – managed to save me. Even though I behaved dreadfully toward him, he tried to help me understand. I was so angry at all the world, grief-stricken and raving. He told me that I needed to let that rage go, or it would consume me. When I finally understood those words, he was already long gone… I never saw him again." She opened her eyes and regret spoke from them like a thing made concrete. Yet at the same time the fond memory quirked her lips into a smile.

"You would have liked him. Like you, he is… was, for me, what all templars should aspire to be: A great protector, a champion of justice, a man of honour and courage. It was him, you know, who told me that poem, before he left: _With this line I'll mark my past, as a symbol of beginning._ I think that he too, wanted to start anew. I wonder what became of him… He has likely passed away by now…", she speculated distractedly, lids fluttering. The weeping and long conversation had drained her, and she was still feeble from illness. Cullen brushed some wayward strands of hair from her tired face.

"He was a good man. A good templar. I hope he found peace by the Maker's side.", he whispered quietly.

"I hope so too, _vhenan_.", Shenlira murmured and suppressed a big yawn. She searched for his hand between the sheets, fingers entwining with his. "…so you don't get any ideas of rising early.", she explained. Then, her voice drowsy, already half-way into sleep, "You look like you haven't slept for a week. Perish the thought of you becoming less handsome. What would the flock of geese say?" Somehow, impossibly, she still managed to joke about his looks, despite the state she was in. Cullen sighed in an exasperated sort of way and pulled her into his sheltering embrace. Where she fell asleep, knowing that no harm would ever reach her.


	12. XII Gilded Cage, Still A Cage

_Phew... I have been revising and correcting something fierce (revision of all chapters including this one have been revised since I started uploading). This chapter is quite mixed up, some sexy times (so mind the M, it applies here specifically), and then we delve deeper into the whole demon-assassination plot... As always, enjoy!_

* * *

 **XII. Gilded Cage, Still A Cage**

 _You can stable an old mare for a few days and she won't mind. Lay some good straw around her, bring her fresh water and grain and she'll be content. But never think for a moment that you can do the same to a spirited colt. You might line the stall with the finest blankets and the freshest grass, give him the richest corn, even sugar. But still, you will one day find the stall empty and the horse gone, and you well deserve the arduous task of catching it again for your folly. A gilded cage is still a cage, and the horse knows that better than you do, boy. Horses and people are very much alike.  
Master Dennet, Stablemaster of Skyhold_

* * *

Over the next few days, Shenlira began the slow recovery from the damages the attack and the nightmare had wrought. She ate from each ridiculously large meal brought to the quarters, until she thought she might burst. And still her friends – and Cullen, of course, kept ordering more. It got to a point where she became irritated and asked them if they planned to feed a pack of hungry wolves they'd hidden somewhere beneath her bed. Whoever was visiting her then was reprimanded by Cullen not to upset her, and they would all solemnly agree that she needed rest. Shenlira would protest that all she ever did was to rest, but to no avail. Her beloved managed the sickbed schedule of her days with a military precision, like the general that he was, and it began to dawn on her that if he had his way, she would have spent a whole month in bed, doing nothing. Although she remarked that she was fine, growing stronger each day, and teased him with his overprotectiveness – sometimes more cuttingly than necessary – she couldn't find it in her heart to be truly annoyed at him. He tried to hide it as best as he could, but the attempt on her life had shaken him. And so Shenlira stoically endured his ceaseless worrying, until Leliana and Cassandra came to visit her one day. She'd just eaten a bowl of broth bigger than her head and made the mistake of unconsciously rubbing her eyes, stifling a yawn.

"Maybe this isn't a good time. She should sleep for an hour and then…", Cullen, who had of course watched her like a hawk, remarked to Cassandra doubtfully. Shenlira let out a noise of frustration and regarded him, eyes sparking.

"I'm fine! Don't you have my army to lead, bossy creature? Find somewhere else to be!", her voice carried a hint of annoyance, but it lacked true severity. Cullen frowned slightly and then sighed in a subdued sort of way.

"Don't tire her out.", he whispered to Leliana, but he couldn't trick a hunter's keen hearing.

"I heard that!", she called after him as he left, then turned to the two women who had taken seats on the chairs at her bedside. "Please, don't make me declare war on Tevinter so he has something to do with himself. You are resourceful people, find some way to get him out of this room and back to his tower, at least for a few hours a day.", she complained without preamble. Then a little softer she added, "It's endearing that he worries, but I swear his constant fussing over me will drive me insane." Leliana and Cassandra exchanged a meaningful look and both smiled apologetically.

"This is nothing. You didn't see him during the days you were unconscious. It was… well, let us just say that we don't want to repeat such an incident any time soon. Not ever, if possible.", Cassandra said, her voice serious again.

"He was a wreck. He went a little mad there, I think. You were fading so quickly, and they barely snatched you from the brink of death.", Leliana added, eyeing Shenlira up and down with a thorough gaze. "How are you feeling, truthfully?"

"I'm tired all the time… And I feel weak like a new-born kitten each morning, but it's getting better. I think in a few days I can finally leave this bed – words cannot describe how sick I am of lying around all day.", Shenlira answered with an earnest enthusiasm. Cassandra and Leliana both looked relieved, although the spymaster's face turned grave as she went on a moment later.

"What do you remember of the attack? I need to know every detail if we are to find this… assassin, for lack of a better name. We still don't know if he intended to kill you by giving you to the demon." Shenlira averted her eyes from theirs and stared at the needlework on the bedcovers for a long moment. It was necessary to recall the things she had glimpsed deep inside the demon's design, but remembering them still filled her with helpless terror. The mages of her inner circle had named the creature 'the Architect' to the chroniclers, for the way it had built layers upon layers of twisted memories around her, locking her inside the winding maze of nightmare. She took a deep breath of courage. Better to get it over with quickly, like cauterizing a wound.

"Cullen said… He told you about my mother, Mar'Alenna.", she made a halting gesture when both women started to speak. Their expressions were sympathetic – but she couldn't look at them just yet, or hear their words of comfort. "No, please, let me finish first. The Architect told me over and over that I carried my mother's taint, that I was just like her… Evil inside, weak, hiding my hideous true self from the world. Unleash me, he kept saying. Unleash me upon the world. I almost did, I was so close – I even saw what his plan was, he became so excited and gleeful that his hold slipped just the tiniest bit. He gorged himself on my despair, growing fat, a giant black serpent. And when he'd become powerful enough, he would wake me and use the Anchor to rip a hole into the Veil, so he could cross over. At that moment, I would die, bled dry, and he would take my place. Someone… had promised him this. I don't know if it was Corypheus… But in exchange, the Architect would corrupt everyone he could inside the Inquisition, and kill those who refused to bow to his will." She stopped speaking and watched the stricken expressions of the two women across her as they realized how they had avoided this disaster only by a hair's breadth.

"So we don't know if it was Corypheus after all… It could have been the henchman, whoever that was. This is not a simple weapon.", Cassandra held out a piece of fabric and pulled it back so Shenlira could see the dagger with the intricate, silver hilt, filigree runes weaving across the darkened blade. She recoiled from it. "Solas and Morrigan told us it was a weapon used for blood sacrifices and had been infused with blood magic, on top of being coated with poison – and lyrium."

"The sheath is missing.", Shenlira said, her voice overflowing with bitterness. "It belonged to my mother. I don't understand…" From the corner of her eye, she saw that Cullen had silently re-entered the room and was listening to their conversation, his face hard as though chiselled from stone. But she couldn't meet his eyes, nor Cassandra's or Leliana's.

"There was something… I was trying to pull off the snare, and I felt someone behind me in the shadows… It all happened so fast. The dagger struck me from behind and when I fell down, I saw a figure above me. He was hooded, so I couldn't see his face. But I remember a bone necklace, the shape of a wolf's head. Is it a coincidence? The wolf features so strongly in elven lore, in countless ways. Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf… the god of betrayal, marking a darker side of the wolf. But also the Emerald Knights, who were said to have wolf companions. My people built wolf statues all over this land, and they still stand unmarred. Could it be…?", her words went unfinished, and it seemed like she was more talking to herself than to them. Regardless, Leliana spoke next into the silence.

"Could it be that the attacker was one of your people? An elf? Dalish, even?", she asked, throwing Cullen a worried glance. Shenlira's face had gone pale, a deep frown on her brow. Unconsciously, she rubbed one hand over the place where the dagger had struck her, wincing.

"Well, he seemed quite lean for a human… But it would make no sense!", she suddenly burst out, brimming with agitation. " _'We are the last of the elvhen. Never again shall we submit'_! Tevinter enslaved my people. No Dalish elf in their right mind would follow a Tevinter Magister – it would be treason of… unspeakable, unheard of, serving the old enemy.", she shook her head and Cullen saw that she was talking herself into a rage, unwilling to believe that one of her own kind could do such a thing. "No. There has to be another explanation. There has to be.", this in an almost begging tone, as though saying those words often enough could make them true. She buried her face in her hands, heaving a shuddering breath.

"But, Shenlira… We have to consider every possibility. Try to remember, did anyone know about your mother possessing the dagger, someone of the clan maybe-", Leliana began, but at this point Cullen intervened. He felt Shenlira's distress like waves lapping against his consciousness, and although Leliana's intentions were righteous, the spymaster could be ruthless at times when determined to uncover a sinister plot.

"That's enough for today, Leliana.", he said in a voice that allowed no room for objection. She looked like she would protest anyway, but after a long moment she nodded curtly. "Forgive me, we upset you… Maybe we can talk some more tomorrow. Now we at least have a lead to follow, and whatever may come of it, we will find the one responsible, you have my word."

Cullen accompanied the two women to the door and before they left, Leliana turned to him, apprehension clear in her eyes.

"How likely is it that the templars have overlooked such a magically infused artefact, Cullen?", she inquired in a low voice. Cullen knew that she did not want Shenlira to hear the suspicion that they all seemed to share: More likely than not, the assassin was an elf.

"Under normal circumstances, I would say they couldn't have possibly overlooked it. But nothing about that… despicable hunt was normal, Leliana. All Marcus cared about was his revenge. He was mad, possibly even in the first stages of lyrium insanity… I am quite sure he did not follow any templar protocol of securing dangerous magical artefacts when he killed Mar'Alenna.", Cullen answered heavily.

"Have you located him yet, Leliana? He has to be brought to judgement, and I would very much like to question that man how his actions managed to escape the seekers' attention.", Cassandra spoke with unveiled disdain. Leliana shook her head regretfully.

"No, I haven't heard back from my agents yet. Marcus vanished years ago, and even before that, information on his whereabouts was dodgy at best. Only rumours, I am afraid. I cannot believe that she never sought him out herself. If it had been me, I would have wanted revenge.", the spymaster spoke in a mere whisper, but the expression on her face was cold, steeled.

"I think she was scared to stumble upon even greater destruction her mother might have wrought. We do not know what happened between Mar'Alenna and Marcus, but no man can hate with such fervour and no cause.", Cullen pondered thoughtfully.

"I am more worried about this assassin running free, probably planning the next move. Everything he did was cleverly arranged. She should not leave for field assignments until we have caught him.", this from Leliana again, to which Cullen gave a fatalistic sort of sigh.

"She won't like that.", Cassandra commented, eyeing him with something just short of pity.

"No, she will not.", he emphasized those words in complete agreement.

* * *

A week later, after a stern Cullen had extended her confinement for three days longer than she had planned, Shenlira practically badgered Solas and the healer to officially declare her well enough to get out of 'this fricking bed'. Cullen had, naturally, moved to object, but she'd quelled him with a look and announced that she would never regain her full strength by lying around all day, being coddled. Leliana had successfully coaxed him to return to his tower for most of his duties, since the commotion caused by soldiers and scouts constantly coming and going in her quarters on top of the people who sought the Inquisitor for their own matters was simply too much.

Shenlira took up her daily routine again and started training to rebuild the stamina she had lost during her dangerous illness. The progress was maddeningly slow, for she kept tiring too quickly. It frustrated her to suddenly be out of breath from exercises she had once managed without breaking a sweat. Used to being nimble and quick, to be capable of holding a bowstring drawn for minutes on end, she became indignant when she had to pause frequently for rest. Varric kept telling her not to push herself, the strength would come in time. Her advisors, for once united in utter persistence, had forbidden her to leave the keep as long as her attacker still ran free. Well, technically they could not forbid her anything, but Shenlira though it unwise to pit herself against their iron will. There was no arguing with them, and she supposed they did have a point, but it was vexing all the same. Never having been a vengeful sort of person, the dark urge to hunt down the one who had plotted such a sinister act against her was surprising, if not unsettling. Did the man with the wolf carving even have an idea what it had been like, watching her closest friends and loved ones die countless times?

Shenlira consulted with Solas and Morrigan, but could not tell them any more about the assassin than she had told Leliana. Even when they showed her the contraption that had trapped her, she was at a loss who could have made it. According to Varric, the snares were not of dwarven origin, but very cleverly built, possibly even an exclusive design.

Knowing well how she hated to be confined to Skyhold, Cullen tried to placate her in every way that he found. He tasked Shenlira with assigning trustworthy people to the missions she was now unable to carry out and planning in advance for them. This mollified her to some extent, but he didn't miss the longing look she often turned towards the window, from where the wide pine forest seemed to call out to her endlessly. He despised having to chain her down like some cruel jailer, but there was just no other way, at least for a while. During the days she'd lain senseless to the world, he had spent every night by her side, never leaving it for longer than a few minutes. One of the major changes for them both was that he did not return to his bed in the tower room, instead continued to sleep in her quarters. This happened in wordless, mutual agreement, even though Shenlira remarked to him in jest how he could ever have willingly slept beneath that poorly-thatched roof. That terrible, icy draft would have made a bear shudder.

Seeing Cullen remove his armour in the evenings to sit down with her for dinner was one of the many little, private things she came to hold dear. The way he took forever to finish his meals because he constantly stopped to take notes on some parchment or other, and then he would absent-mindedly pick up a fork instead of a spoon. When he came across something troubling, he'd frown sternly; if companions like Dorian or the Bull had included some witty comment into their reports, the corner of his mouth would twitch ever so slightly. If he could not figure out a solution on the spot, he had a habit of rubbing his neck in a perplexed gesture. Just watching him read reports during dinnere made her days of confinement bearable. The first week of sharing a bed had been a strange experience. Shenlira hadn't slept next to a person for any length of time since she'd been a child. Both of them were light sleepers, and frequently roused each other with some small movement or shift of the mattress. Yet she wouldn't have traded it for anything. Too quickly she got used to the closeness of him, the long conversations during the night, the deep breaths that rocked her to sleep, the sweet gesture that he always tucked the covers back around her when they slipped… All small, special secrets only she knew about him. But one thing baffled her about the new living arrangement – even after the healers had taken off her bandages and the wound had mended to a jagged scar, Cullen kept uncannily avoiding to be intimate with her. Each night they'd fall asleep together, but much to her frustration, he never ventured farther than a few gentle kisses. She knew he wanted to. Very much so. The way she was roused every morning by an insistent hardness pressing against her backside when he thought she was still asleep would have been proof enough. The complaints she heard about the Commander's surliness and whipping rigour as the days passed only made her more certain. Shenlira suspected that he still deemed her too fragile and weak to engage in such… vigorous physical activities. Well, it seemed she needed to prove the man wrong, so he would stop torturing himself – and the troops.

* * *

One evening, knowing that Cullen would be kept late in his tower by a meeting with his captains, she planted her trap. After bathing with great care in warm water fragrant with her favourite oil, Shenlira dried her hair by the fire and brushed it until it was a river of molten copper. Instead of putting on her nightshirt, she slipped under the blankets and fur throw without a stitch of clothing and pulled them up to almost fully cover her face. She didn't have to feign sleep for long. Soon, the doorknob clicked and she heard him enter the room. The moment Cullen glimpsed her already retreated to bed, his movements turned stealthy and silent. It was a little unusual for Shenlira to have retired so early, since she normally liked to read well past midnight. He still took care not to wake her as he undressed and washed with fresh water from her small, glazed basin. _Step into my web already, silly man_ , she smirked to herself. Quietly, he fed the fire and then lifted the sheets, but what waited beneath made him let out a throaty gasp. She was completely naked, skin infused with a glowing warmth, as though she'd sat close to the fire and soaked up all its heat. Her intense, alluring scent hit him like the strike of a hammer. He shuddered as his whole body reacted to the thrilling sensation with keen awareness. It had been weeks since the night at Halamshiral, and sleeping together in the same bed was driving him mad. He craved to be inside her again with an aching need, yet worried that she was still not completely recovered. But this… How was he supposed to resist this? His skin prickled with tiny sparks like lightning, releasing a flood of desire he had held at bay for too long. At that moment, Shenlira opened her eyes and distinct roguish glint flashed across them, full of mischief _. I'm in trouble. Deep, deep in trouble,_ he thought. She grinned impishly, extracting a ragged curse from Cullen.

"Lira, what are you about-", he began unevenly, but it was at this point that he realized: She had it all planned out. One moment of surprise had been all she needed. With the quick, feline grace of a huntress she climbed on top, straddling him, and her mouth descended on his in a kiss that rendered resistance futile. The tips of her breasts grazed over his chest, the enticing heat between her legs pressing against his full erection like an agonizing siren's call. She slipped a hand between their bodies and he went rigid when her fingers ran delicately along the whole, hard length of him. Soft, damp lips sought the hollow of his throat and nibbled their way down. At the same time, she pushed the fabric of his smallclothes aside and he was unable to suppress a groan as her hand closed around him firmly, fingers flexing in a fascinated sort of way. His mind nearly went on vacation, the pleasure racing from nerve to nerve making it impossible to think clearly.

"What are you…Stop, Lira, no – you're not… at full strength yet-", he somehow managed to protest, but it sounded shaken, even to his own ears. Shenlira silenced him with another kiss. She drove him to distraction by pulling away when his tongue sought entry to her honeyed mouth, then giving him just the tiniest flick. She taunted, chased and frolicked, until his hand slid to her nape to hold her still and she let him taste her delicious sweetness, a low rumble rising from deep in his chest. He could smell the heated, intoxicating scent of her arousal and the urge to touch her there, to feel the silky wetness, was almost unbearable. Some tiny shred of sanity returned the moment she brushed aside the piece of cloth separating them and guided him between her thighs. He writhed cagily in an attempt to dissuade her, but the conniving woman's legs trapped his hips like a vice and Cullen was thwarted by the strength of countless hours spent on horseback. A sound both plea and objection came from his lips.

"What's this, _vhenan_?", Shenlira murmured, smiling. Her eyes glittered with deviltry. "Do you not wish me to ride you like this?", she teased and straightened so he could behold her in all her naked, beguiling glory. No measure of willpower could have made him refuse her at that moment.

"Temptress.", he cursed hoarsely, but was cut off when she lowered herself just a bit and he slipped inside her entrance, so sweet and snug. He got no quarter from her, no second to gather his wits. She guided him deeper, slowly, inch by inch, in a torturous slide that slammed all air from his lungs. Seeing the difficulty she was having in accommodating him made him frenzied. Any second now, he'd lose control. His hands trembled as they seized her narrow waist, and still she went further, until the downy curls at the junction of her legs tickled the prickling skin of his loins… and then he was gloriously buried to the hilt inside her tightness.

"Maker help me…", he uttered in a voice he didn't recognize as his own, his head falling back to the pillows, eyes gleaming with a hungry desire as they roamed over her.

"Blasphemy.", she retorted breathlessly. Then she began to move above him in a measured pace, lifting and settling, the friction sending waves of pleasure out from the place their bodies were joined. She made a little satisfied hum in her throat, a sinful, female sound that accompanied the small shivers he felt surging through her body. Rhythm came naturally to her, needing no guidance, no steadying, and Cullen heard himself plead with her, praise her with endearments and wicked words.

"Don't stop, my wild love-", he whispered shakily. "Yes, ride me… Oh, please-"

Shenlira watched him ardently, her lids half-closed, gaze clouded by passion. She revelled in the exhilaration that she could make such a man lose himself in the throes of desire for her, the feeling of empowerment only all the more stimulating. Her pace accelerated without mercy, into a wild ride of pure instinct, and she felt him nudge upward to meet her descent. Every nerve came alive with a burning heat that rose higher and higher, each stroke a new summit of excitement.

 _Stop, not so fast, go slower – I won't last like this_ , Cullen wanted to tell her, but no words would come. Only a deep, low groan that rose from the most primal, possessive part of him. He was suspended in wonder at the sight of her astride him, the whole rest of the world fading out of focus. Her damp skin glowed golden in the firelight, the pointed tips of her breasts dusky and perfect, fiery hair a feral mane around the flushed, wickedly beautiful face. A sun-kissed lioness. She took complete charge of the tempo and her untamed enjoyment excited him so much, his vision blurred and darkened a little around the edges, mind too spellbound to think or do as she galloped him relentlessly into oblivion. Somehow, he managed to reach the secret little peak at her centre with his fingertips. He barely even needed to touch it. Just a few tiny flicks, and he was awarded. Abundantly. The cords of her neck went taut before she cried out. The force of her release unleashed his own and he pushed deeply inside, holding her shaking hips firmly as she came undone. His climax was so fierce, it made his senses black out on him for a moment, immersing him in a blinding, shattering light.

The rush of his blood pounded in his ears when he came into awareness a little later, breath fractured. Strands of Shenlira's hair spread out all over his chest and across his face, her head resting at the place where an erratic heartbeat was trying to return to a steady rhythm. Cullen shifted her limp body just a little so they would lie side by side and she hummed her assent in an idle sort of way. He brushed a lazy little kiss to the corner of her mouth, making her lips quirk in a smile.

"You are a savage elf, do you know that?", Cullen whispered teasingly. "I have never been seduced against my will before." She snickered quietly, giving him a flippant look.

"My poor beloved, how will you ever recover?", Shenlira said, her voice ringing with amusement and mock pity. "Besides, you have it all wrong. Nobody can be _seduced_ against their will. _Seduction is merely encouraging a man to do a thing he already wants to do_. A wise woman told me that. You could have refused, you know.", she pointed out, to which Cullen snorted sarcastically.

"I wonder who you sought for such sultry advice…", he murmured. "As if I could refuse you anything, elusive creature. Don't try to divert me with clever words, you used me without mercy for your own pleasure…" His rebuke was of course not serious, and he emphasized it by leaning in and rubbing the rough bristles on his jaw over the ticklish skin at the hollow of her throat. Shenlira twitched and writhed, dissolving in a girlish giggle. He proceeded with the torture until she begged him to relent, panting. Then, she pursed her lips and her expression turned conspiratorial.

"No refusing me? Can I go hunting, then?", she inquired innocently. Her whole body still sang with the pleasure of their passionate joining and she stretched languidly like a content cat.

"Don't push your luck, Lira.", this he said in a sober tone. But his next words were teasing again. "Or should I tickle you once more? Better yet, maybe in the morning I'll wake you by doing that thing you seemed to like so much at Halamshiral, only not with my fingers…" That awarded him a wide-eyed, intensely curious look. They continued the sultry banter until Cullen noticed her stifling a yawn, lids growing heavy with fatigue. He pulled the blankets up to cover the dove-white skin of her shoulder and she burrowed against his chest, instinctively seeking the protective warmth.

"Are you feeling alright?" She felt his deep voice vibrate in his chest, low and filled with gentle concern. Fingers tangled into the strands of her hair, twirling and playing with the silky locks, a habit that seemed to captivate him endlessly. He never tired of it.

"'m fine… Happy… Weary…", she managed a little sigh and a moment later she'd already nodded off, breaths turning deep and even. Cullen wished that her dreams would not be invaded by demon serpents or war-torn wastelands, but instead hoped she would walk primordial forests beneath a quiet full moon, stalking a herd of deer through the velvet-cloaked night. The worry how much longer she'd be able to endure confinement inside the keep lay heavy on his heart as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Just as Cullen had suspected, Shenlira became more and more restless as the days passed without news from Leliana's agents. She seemed to have fully recovered from her injury and its aftermaths. The damage the demon had done to her mind was not as easily healed. Cullen often woke to her tossing and turning wildly beside him, keening fitfully, haunted by memories from the nightmare. But he was always there to calm her, and although she did not speak in detail about what she saw in those dreams, he could feel that his presence helped. Yet, he couldn't do much against her confinement, which didn't stop him from trying. He made Varric organize evenings with card games or storytelling and encouraged the tavern people to ask Shenlira if she could teach them some more unusual songs. Of course, she saw through his little subterfuges to distract her, and her appreciation rewarded him with a passionate night that he would quite surely not forget so soon. But all honest efforts did not drown out the fact that being imprisoned inside stone walls was against her very nature. She needed the liberty to roam like a race horse needed to run, otherwise inertia would drive it insane. Even though Shenlira took considerable pains to hide her growing edginess, she became sullen and irritable, to a point where she would snap even at him, something she'd never seriously done before. Cullen was glad when, two weeks into this state slowly wearing down her patience, one of the spies arrived at the keep, a pair of solid bags slung over his mount's back. Leliana received him and had the bags brought to a small study in the living quarters of the keep. He followed her there, not just because Shenlira had been particularly morose and he was keen to give her some space. The fervent intention to catch the assassin and end this strenuous affair for everyone burned stronger in him than the others. Well, except for Leliana, maybe. The spymaster was neatly arranging parchments into piles when he entered the study. She barely spared him a glance, her eyes quickly scanning over the scripture.

"So, what exactly is all of this?", Cullen queried in an eager tone. "Don't tell me you have found this much about the man with the wolf carving."

"Of course not.", Leliana answered impatiently. "The scheming rat could be anywhere, if he even was the true manipulator behind the plot. Maker, I hate being blind." Her expression held a sort of angry frustration as she pointed at the sheets of paper on the table. "We have to start somewhere. This is everything relating to Marcus Vilerian, the templar you told me hunted down Mar'Alenna with a vengeance. And this other bag… is what my agents dug up about Mar'Alenna herself, and the dagger. I was very circumspect. None of my agents know she was Shenlira's mother. Now I will sift through all of this and see if I can somehow unravel what happened to the dagger.", she said this in a determined voice to which Cullen nodded curtly.

"Good." He pulled a chair close to the table's opposite side and opened the bag. It held much fewer parchments than the other one. Leliana regarded him with confusion.

"What are you doing?", she asked, baffled. Cullen raised his brows at her.

"I'm just as eager as you get to the bottom of this, Leliana. This is personal. That ambush lost us two dozen of our best, loyal soldiers just so someone could plot to torment the woman I love to death. I want to know who it was and look into their face when I send them to the Maker's judgement.", his words were hard and unyielding, the words of a man whose anger was a honed blade, ready to strike with deadly precision. Leliana nodded in grim agreement.

"It is personal for both of us. It's cocky, insulting that someone managed to lead us on a merry dance like this. Damn it, Cullen they killed three of my scouts and left no trace. No tracks, no orders on the dead red templar's bodies, no nothing!", she sat down across from him with an un-ceremonial flop, huffing in aggravation.

"They left the dagger though. Isn't that strange? All that meticulous planning, and then leave the weapon behind? It almost seems deliberate… like a taunt. But who is being taunted? Shenlira? Or us?", he wondered darkly.

"That is exactly my line of thought. Shenlira could remember nothing about a friend or acquaintance or other connection of her mother who might have known about the dagger. But she was very young and her mind has closed off many memories tied to that time. Besides, Mar'Alenna had a life before she sought sanctuary in clan Lavellan. She could not have worked all alone. Maybe somewhere in these correspondences and reports there is something that will give us a clue, a lead to follow.", Leliana said, sounding determined.

"Let's get to work then."

And so they did. Tirelessly, they sifted through the towers of parchments for the rest of the day, all the while exchanging important findings or reading parts aloud to the other. They had enough well-documented information on Marcus Vilerian's early life, most of it in the meticulously kept records of the templar order or letters between Knight-Commanders. Marcus had been born at Ostwick in the Free Marches, coming from a long line of distinguished military seniors. He'd been one of those cases where a child was promised to the order from infancy, and had started his training earlier than most. The reports on his first years as full Knight-Templar shone with praise for his sense of justice and unshakable loyalty to the order. The Ostwick Circle where he was stationed during this time had a reputation for being sedate and quiet, never having any major incidents. His Knight-Captain saw the potential in Marcus and transferred the young man to Wycome, a considerably bigger city with a large Circle, in hope that his talents would be fostered and of better use there. He took up the assignment with serious diligence.

"Look at this.", Leliana said and handed him a piece of parchment. It was dated about three years before Marcus' transfer and marked as a documentation by the First Enchanter of the Wycome Circle.

* * *

 _We received a new apprentice yesterday. An elven girl, wild, red hair and brilliant green eyes, like a doll made by some master crafter. I estimate her to be about fourteen years of age. She simply showed up on our doorstep, all alone, giving the templars a good surprise. She wouldn't tell us who brought her or where she came from, but she managed the three magical riddles I gave her in less than a minute each, when most apprentices take thrice as long. We seldom train elves, since the Dalish keep their own mages strictly between their clans, and those with aptitude among the alienages are very rare. But I inquired a bit about lore and language from one of our few elven mages, and we named the new arrival Mar'Alenna, which supposedly means 'Weave of Fate'. She is a little old to start training, but we cannot leave someone with this measure of talent unguarded and Mar'Alenna seems very inquisitive, eager to learn. I gave her new robes and quartered her with the older apprentices for now._

* * *

Leliana added another one as soon as Cullen had finished reading the first. Dated two years later, this had been scribbled in an agitated manner.

* * *

 _Maker, the child will drive me mad one day. It has been long since I have seen such prodigal skill in an apprentice, but Mar'Alenna continues to be a difficult student. She masters exercises without effort, and yet there is a veiled, insolent conceit to her that troubles me. She is inapproachable and rarely socializes with anyone, instead spends her time in the library, pouring over arcane tomes much too complicated for her age. She acts distant and aloof, then wanders off for hours into the streets while the others practice, telling me innocently that watching them exercise bores her. There have been some nasty incidents with other apprentices. Jorie slipped on the stairs and twisted her ankle not a day_ _after she'd gotten into a row with Mar'Alenna. I cannot definitely put the blame on her, but I have the distinct feeling it was her doing. What am I going to do with the child?_

* * *

This intrigued both of them and after some digging they found another note by the First Enchanter, dated a year after Marcus had arrived at Wycome.

 _Assigning the new Knight-Templar sent to us from Ostwick to watch Mar'Alenna a little more closely has been a good idea. There have been a few ruffled feathers since he arrived, but the girl seems much more amiable now. They get along well, as well as is expected for a templar and mage. Her Harrowing went without incident, so much of my worries about her have been soothed._

"So they were at the same Circle. They knew each other and it looks like they even had some sort of friendship. Unusual, considering what the First Enchanter wrote about her before.", Leliana mused thoughtfully. Cullen paged through the papers until he came across a note signed by the librarian of the Circle, addressed to the First Enchanter.

 _Last night, when Mar'Alenna inquired about the elven dagger stored in the phylactery room, I almost had a heart attack. Only our most trusted mages know about that evil thing! Her interest was sincerely academic, but… something was strange about her eyes… I cannot help it, I feel uneasy that she uncovered it is in our possession. Elves do not look kindly upon humans hoarding their magical artefacts. It is synonym to petty theft for them. I know there is no way she might enter the phylactery room without a templar working the second half of the spell. But maybe we should send the dagger to Kirkwall, mistress. I never liked the thought of that thing's presence here._

He and Leliana finished reading at the same time and found themselves looking at each other blankly over the meaningful note.

"Wycome's Circle had the dagger. They had it, Cullen!", she suddenly sprang up and began frantically shuffling the papers. "She stole it! I don't know how, but I'm sure, so sure. Look for anything about… Here!", she cried in triumph and began reading seamlessly.

" _Winter solstice, Firstfall, 9:08 Dragon. All had been quiet until we woke from the alarming calls of the templars. A fire had broken out in the kitchens and spread rapidly to the templar quarters and our tower rooms. The smoke was acrid, stinging in the eyes and smelled of sulphur. We ushered the youngest outside into the blistering cold, and then tried to help dousing the fire. Nothing would help, no frost spells, no water, no nothing. Half the library burned down before we joined hands to a combined spell. The First Enchanter had been trapped inside her study. Our librarian burned together with his priceless tomes. We found one of our templars, Marcus I think, at the door to the phylactery storage. I don't know if it was from the smoke, but he was unhinged. Their minds are alien to me. None of them are quite sane. He screamed 'Mar'Alenna has betrayed us all!' Then -_ ", Leliana stopped reading and Cullen grew so impatient that he snatched the parchment from her hands. It had been ripped off after the last words. He voiced his frustration with an angry curse and started pacing the room like a caged lion.

"She laid the fire. Magical, so they could not douse it and she had time to break into the phylactery room. Marcus was the templar with whom she gained entry. The people who knew about the dagger perished in the fire. And Mar'Alenna… Gone, free, with a powerful blood magic artefact in her possession. Maker's Breath.", he raked his hands through his hair, unable to believe such cunning, such ruthless guile. She had left behind a swath of destruction and wiped almost every trace of the dagger from the records, which likely were burned together with the poor librarian. But there was a flaw in in her plan and Leliana, perceptive as always, pointed it out as soon as it occurred.

"What I don't understand is this… Here a record says that Marcus left for a few months and then came back as Mar'Alenna's exploits became known across the Free Marches. He took her phylactery and about a dozen templar, swearing to hunt her down at any cost. If she had already broken into the storage, why didn't she destroy her own phylactery?", she wondered. Cullen pondered her words for a moment.

"You saw what the First Enchanter had written about her. 'Insolent conceit', even in her youth. She probably thought herself cleverer than any templar, more powerful through the dagger she had acquired. She was arrogant, Leliana. Or maybe she had to make a quick escape. Those storage rooms are huge. A dagger on display would be easy to find, but a small phylactery… What I cannot understand is why Marcus agreed to let her inside the room in the first place. His records say he was a model templar.", he sighed, rubbing his neck absent-mindedly.

"They also paint Mar'Alenna as a mage prodigy who was distant and liked to be on her own. A bit of a wildcard, but that isn't all that unusual."

They kept on reading and perusing, until Cullen found a report written by Marcus Vilerian himself, sent to the White Spire. By that time, the room had gone dim in the dying daylight and Leliana lit a few candles as he read the lines written in an austere script to her.

" _Moon-turn, Kingsway, 9:11 Dragon. Honoured Knight-Vigilant Lancel, I write to inform you that after two and a half years of pursuit, we have finally brought the maleficar Mar'Alenna to justice in the deep woods of the Green Dales. Our templar brothers and I fought her valiantly as she attacked us without mercy, but we managed to defeat her. According to tradition, we burned her body and scattered the ashes. As proof, I sent her necklace and phylactery back to the Wycome Circle. I humbly request to be relocated to Kirkwall and assigned to patrol, for if this task has taught me anything it is that dangerous apostates should not be allowed to run free. With greatest respect…_ ", he trailed away, thinking.

"So, he openly lied to the Knight-Vigilant. That's a bold move. This is more complicated than I thought. There is no mention of the dagger and we are not much the wiser than before. Except that we now know for sure Mar'Alenna had stolen the blasted thing.", Leliana let out a breath and rubbed her eyes tiredly.

"Marcus was probably under pressure from the order to get results. Mar'Alenna ran wild in the Free Marches for a long time, and her eluding templar justice cast a bad light on the order's reputation to protect people from precisely those dangers of magic. This letter is dated to the year I was born. It seems he really did get transferred to Kirkwall and stayed there for a while, but I think I remember some of the older templars saying that he became quite the radical. His… well, erratic behaviour and stringed views would have made him a problematic case. Because of his service record, the order would not have simply expelled him. Rather, they'd have assigned him from chapter to chapter, like some oddity no one wanted to keep. It's entirely possible that somewhere along the way, he… 'wandered off' for periods of time, hunting Mar'Alenna again. Nobody would have cared. In the memory of Shenlira that I saw in the nightmare, he had about a dozen templars with him. Maybe he convinced them somehow to join his cause…", Cullen mused, rolling his shoulders for they had become stiff during the long session.

"Now we have even more questions to answer. What really happened when Marcus supposedly caught her the first time? If he truly sent the phylactery back, how did he track her down thirteen years later? And where did he go afterwards?", Leliana sounded disheartened. Cullen gave her a sympathetic look.

"Those are questions probably only Marcus himself could answer, if he is even still alive. The year I was born, he was about twenty-six. He would be, what? In his mid-fifties by now… But something else troubles me, Leliana. That necklace he mentioned…", he said, apprehension clear in his voice. "Is it still there, at the Wycome Circle?" Leliana just looked at him, pale.

"You mean… Was it shaped like a wolf's head?", she then asked in a voice gone cold. They searched through the parchment piles frantically, but found neither another mention of the necklace, nor a message from Leliana's agent. The one who had brought the information to Skyhold had merely said that he'd been handed the package by the other agent and been sent on his way without further ado. It was unusual, but spies sometimes employed a code of anonymity to protect their disguises. Still…

"Nothing here from Light-Foot, my main agent there… That is not like him, to be sloppy. I send my swiftest bird to Wycome, tonight.", Leliana finally resolved.

* * *

Shenlira stood at the balcony doors, looking out over the snow-crested mountains that reflected pale moonlight. Fields coated in silver, glowing softly in the night. Spring had already found its way into the valleys, melting the white blankets and warming the earth beneath. The desperate yearning to ride out into endless plains and feel the wind stroking her face thrashed inside her like a cornered animal. She could not concentrate and hated herself for lashing out at the people she loved. Particularly she regretted being bad-tempered towards Cullen, who tried his hardest to comfort her in this messy situation. Sighing, she was just about to turn back to the warmth of her quarters, when a subtle flap of wings alerted her. From the uncanny camouflage of the night, a black raven landed on the stone balustrade and Shenlira could barely suppress a startled cry. The bird turned one gleaming, beady eye at her and held out its leg. A small roll of parchment was attached to the ankle. With trepidation, she reached forth and untied it. The message had been written in a delicate, cultured hand.

* * *

 _"Inquisitor",_

 _It is considered rude to simply survive assassination attempts as masterfully planned as mine. You thwarted something that had been in the making for months. Has nothing you have seen in that intricate nightmare, not even the dagger I have left behind, stirred your memories? You consort with weakling templars and invite all the filth of the world to join your 'cause'. Your insolence continues to grow, and this from the blood of Her blood. Despicable. If you yearn to meet your match, you should start by searching the place where your mother's downfall began._

 _An Old Friend_

* * *

Her hand was trembling with rage before she even reached the end of the note. _That rude son of a…_ To mock and taunt her like that, besmirching the Inquisition… _To call Cullen a weakling, who does he think he is?! Who was the one hiding in the shadows like a coward to backstab me?_ It took several minutes to calm herself enough so she could reread it and commit it to memory. Then, she threw the original note into the fire and wrote her answer on a tiny piece of paper, tying it to the raven's leg. It only bore one sentence.

 _I will come for you, bastard._


	13. XIII A House Divided

_I find it very difficult to write "bridging" story parts, as I call them, because I usually fear that they bore readers. You want to see action! Believe me, I know. It's coming. I wanted to thank all those who have read the story this far, and I can honestly say that the part that follows after this is my favorite one. We enter into a dangerous journey, closing in on that wretched assassin, whoever it is. And nobody is quite happy with the circumstances._

 _When I revised this chapter, I came across a cornucopia of mistakes - shows how I neglected this bridge. What I really like about it is Shenlira being her usual, reckless self. And that foreboding... Will we see Cullen get truly angry for once? I think we will. Bad decision, main character!_

* * *

 **XIII. A House Divided**

 _Differences of opinion are a natural thing, even among the best of friends. Everyone squabbles, it's just a part of life. But Maker help me, I would rather swim buck-naked through a lake of acid than get mixed up in a lover's quarrel.  
Varric_

* * *

Shenlira did not tell Cullen about the note, which she was certain had come from the man with the wolf carving, the man who had plotted her murder. She knew exactly how he would have reacted: By reaffirming her confinement and keeping an even closer eye on her. He and Leliana had closeted themselves off and were in the process of uncovering the dark secrets of Mar'Alenna. The gruesome extent of mother's exploits was not a thing she wished to be subjected to. Cullen had sensed that on the night he told her what they had found out from the correspondences. He omitted the specifics, but still Shenlira could not help but wonder how her mother had managed to convince a templar to open the phylactery storage room with her. She had a distinct suspicion, but… the taunting note troubled her far more. It had sounded as though she was supposed to know this assassin, but try as she might, she couldn't remember any man connected to her mother other than Marcus Vilerian, and she doubted that the message had been his doing. Cullen had shown her a letter written by Marcus. The handwriting had been a different one. More so, the choice of words and the general… feel of it was more like it had been written by an intellectual mastermind, a scholar. Where had Mar'Alenna's downfall begun? At the Wycome Circle. _I can't just announce to my advisors that I'm off to Wycome…,_ she mused bitterly. Because then she would have to tell them the content of the message, and they would throw a collective fit that she'd even consider taking the bait. All in all, a vexing situation.

In the middle of the night a few days later, Cullen's senses prickled with awareness and he awakened immediately. The reflexes of lifelong training in vigilance made him a light sleeper. He almost had a heart attack when he saw Leliana standing by the bedside like some haunting spectre, the lone candle she held casting trembling shadows over her hooded silhouette. Shenlira stirred beside him, ever a huntress who tended to be roused by the smallest sounds. The sheets had slipped, revealing the pale skin of her back, marred by the jagged burn mark. He quickly pulled the blankets up to cover her nakedness and murmured softly to her until she drifted off again. _Saved by the bell._ Silently, he stood and followed a beckoning Leliana, throwing on a shirt as he went. They exited the quarters without a sound. On the other side of the door, she suddenly turned and spoke without preamble.

"A raven arrived half an hour ago. It's from my agent at Wycome.", she said and handed him the message. Cullen rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and read, instantly alert.

* * *

 _Nightingale,_

 _The package I sent should have reached you by now. I did not include a full report, because I had to send Forager on his way, quick and stealthy. The templars here are very restrictive about any sort of information from the past. The argument of Inquisition orders did nothing to help me. I had to use every trick in the book to escape their watchful gaze so I could ferret out what you asked for. When I wanted to see the phylactery room, I was adamantly declined. So I asked around the citizens and learned two very strange things. First, some weeks after the conclave, the tower was raided by rebel mages. They killed the templars who had stayed after the rebellion and vandalised the whole place. A townswoman saw them leaving, led by a lean, hooded figure… wearing a white necklace, shaped like a wolf's head. The others called him 'The Weaver's Chosen'. The second thing, and this really bothers me: The tower stood abandoned for months. The templars here seem to have arrived only weeks ago and they claim they were properly assigned. But when one caught me with a letter concerning Marcus Vilerian, there was menace in his eyes. Something is… off about them. The looks they give me are almost eerie. It makes my hackles rise. I fear it might be dangerous to stay here for much longer. I will attempt to look at the phylactery room without them noticing tomorrow night, then I shall return to Skyhold for a full report._

 _Light-Foot_

* * *

Cullen reached the bottom of the page and looked up to find Leliana's eyes on him, her expression hard as stone.

"I didn't assign templars to Wycome's Circle tower. Leliana, the man your agent describes –", he began in a dead voice, but she cut him off.

"The assassin. 'The Weaver's Chosen'. I am quite sure he stole Mar'Alenna's necklace from the tower. My agent… Oh, Light-Foot, he was always too rash. I fear for him, Cullen. Every spy sense I have screams he is in danger.", she said, shifting restlessly on the spot.

"This is it. We go to Wycome. All signs point there, and I am tired of sitting around, waiting for news. It's time for action. Secure passage on a ship from Jader, for a small force of… six, no, eight. You and me, Cassandra, Varric… And we should take an experienced mage. Solas might be eager to help. And three veteran soldiers.", his mind was already planning ahead. He'd never been at Wycome before. As far as he knew, it was a city of revelry and peace, a contrast to the solemnity of Kirkwall. Being one of the city states farthest to the East, it had never known the horrors of the Blight, never experienced the ravages of war.

"What about Shenlira? She will want to come too.", Leliana remarked meaningfully. Cullen sighed. She was right. Dissuading Shenlira from the idea of accompanying them would be like trying to push a cart sideways up a hill.

"We have to be circumspect about it somehow… Maybe she can be persuaded if we all present a united front. And if not…", he trailed off. He wasn't versed in subterfuge, at all. But Leliana was.

"If not and she should make it as far as Jader, something or someone will simply detain her until the anchor is pulled.", the spymaster stated. Cullen eyed her doubtfully. He loved Shenlira with a passion that, after the way he had saved her had become known in the keep, had inspired songs to be sung about his devotion. Yet he also knew her well enough to be certain that she would view exclusion from the hunt they planned as a prime insult. But her safety was more important to him than the possibility of inciting her wrath. The name "Weaver's Chosen" meant that the man, after all, had some sort of connection to Mar'Alenna, 'Weave of Fate'. He supposed there was a double symbolism in it: She had weaved magic with blood. Her remarkable talent had her treading paths of the arcane few had ever ventured down before. Afterwards, she'd become a literal weaver and created beautiful, lifelike embroideries for her daughter. Cullen feared that the man with the wolf carving was out for revenge on her, and he had outsmarted the whole of them once already. _Anything to keep Lira out of his reach, even if I have to bear the bulk of her anger_. For a few minutes longer, he spoke with Leliana about the specifics of their journey and they decided they would leave for Jader before the week was out. The sooner they put this problem to rest, the sooner Shenlira and the Inquisition's attention would be free to pursue the destruction of their true enemy, Corypheus.

Still, when he quietly joined her in their shared bed a little later, Cullen was invaded by an uneasy apprehension. Impossible to describe why, but he felt like they were all missing something, some crucial part of the whole story, as though walking blindly into the lair of an intelligent, unknown predator. For the life of him, he still couldn't remember where he had seen Marcus Vilerian before. So many questions remained, but that could not be helped. They had to act before the trail went cold. As sleep claimed him, his dreams were filled with dark machinations, chased by skulking shadows, and he had a rising trepidation that they were on their way of making a terrible mistake.

* * *

Everyone Cullen had suggested as part of their fellowship on the journey to Wycome agreed without second thought to his plan. Cassandra had the sincere hope they would find some clue to Marcus' whereabouts or even the rogue templar himself, especially considering the strange circumstances Light-Foot had described in his urgent letter. Varric, he supposed, wanted to avenge the wrongs done to a dear friend he saw in Shenlira. Solas laboured under the suspicion that the man they were hunting, the 'Weaver's Chosen', was a powerful mage who had apprenticed beneath Mar'Alenna before she retired from her position as one of the most infamous maleficar of her time. As for Leliana, she had already told him she viewed the assassins plot as a personal insult, even more now that she feared for the safety of one of her best agents. Cullen felt hideous sneaking off to meetings with all of them in an attempt to avoid Shenlira figuring their plan out. The longer they could keep it from her, the less time she had to concoct something on her own in order to go with them. They were thwarted about two days before the scheduled departure. Gathered in the small study Leliana had provided, Cullen was in the middle of debriefing the company about the exact schedule.

"The ship should not take longer than two weeks to reach Wycome. As soon as we arrive, Cassandra and I will meet with the templars at the tower while Leliana looks for her agent. Solas and Varric, you should inquire wherever you think is wise about the Weaver's Chosen. There is still a possibility that he is an elf, so maybe it would make sense to ask around the alienages and common districts…", he instructed them. Solas looked thoughtful.

"As of yet, we have not discussed the option that the Chosen might belong to a clan, if he is an elf. Maybe we should also contact clan Lavellan. They are camped on the outskirts of Wycome in the riverlands." At that moment, an angry voice made them all flinch.

"And how do you plan to contact the clan as complete outsiders, if I may ask?" Shenlira had entered the room with ghostly stealth. Now she stood before them, arms so tightly crossed it was unlikely she would ever untangle them again. Her grey eyes flashed with unveiled anger as they assessed each companion in the half-circle, leaving Cullen for last. He bristled at the cold, steely expression on her face.

"So this is what you do, hide in crammed little studies, plotting to hunt down the assassin behind my back? Did you really think I would not find out? I'm the Inquisitor, geniuses! One of your soldiers spilled his guts when I grilled him where you've all gotten to.", she said icily. _She means you, specifically_ , Cullen's conscience piped.

"We did not exactly hide it from you, Shenlira. But we knew that if we told you, you would want to accompany us –", Cassandra began, but Shenlira interrupted her.

"As well I should! That man almost killed me, and you want me to sit around, twirling my thumbs while you go after him! Did you think I wear 'First Hunter' as a token title?!", her voice had risen almost to a yell. Solas spoke next, as always unruffled like a quiet pond.

" _Da'Assan_ , that is exactly the reason why you should stay. Your judgement is clouded by fear and anger, and the measures this man has gone through leaves no doubt this is exactly what he wants. There is something personal in it for him. He knows you, has studied you. The only reason he failed the first time is because he underestimated Cullen, and my knowledge of the Fade, probably. You are vulnerable to him." His calmness irritated her only further.

"I won't let you go without me! What if one of you –", she stopped and shook herself jerkily, like a wolf shaking its pelt. Then, she pierced the gathered parties with a look of pure command. She never had invoked the superiority of her rank in front of them before. That she would do it now spoke volumes about how desperately she wanted to go with them. Her friends flinched back from the outlandish voice with which she said the following. "I am the Inquisitor. My word overrules you all. I _demand_ that you take me with you. That is not a request." All of them exchanged meaningful glances with each other, before Leliana cleared her throat.

"That would be true, Inquisitor, if this were an Inquisition operation, but it isn't. This is a personal endeavour of a group of… friends, dedicated to right a wrong. Everyone here, including the three soldiers who will journey with us, has volunteered to the task. All expenses have been paid from Varric's personal coffers. Therefore, forgive me, you have no authority over the choice of the fellowship." To say such a blunt and frankly disobeying thing seemed to take her considerable willpower. Shenlira paled and just stared at Varric. She didn't know what expression was on her face, but the dwarf sighed apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Robin. It's for the best like this.", he sounded earnest, but inflexible, and he was the most lenient of them all. Desperate now, she turned to Cullen _. This couldn't be happening_! Her eyes were pleading with him in a way that made his heart wrench in his chest.

"You can't do this, Cullen. You can't leave me behind!", her lower lip suddenly started trembling, and he almost gave in. Almost. He did not trust his voice to be even or determined enough, so he merely shook his head regretfully.

"You can't do this.", Shenlira repeated as the realization dawned on her that none of them would give in. Then, like quickly changing weather, her face went taut with hurt and anger. "Damn you all!", she threw at them. Next they knew, she was gone in a whirl, slamming the door. It rattled in its hinges. A long silence fell, unravelling like a loose thread.

"I wonder if we did the right thing. It did not feel right.", Solas said heavily after a while. Leliana let out a breath.

"She will forgive us. She always does." The spymaster did not sound quite as certain as she usually did. Cullen was still staring at the door, feeling as though a cumbersome weight was suddenly pulling him towards the ground. He only listened to their conversation with one ear.

"Robin, really?", Cassandra asked Varric curiously. The dwarf shrugged and gave a crooked smile.

"She's tiny, red and she sings." After a moment, he added more seriously. "Although I guess we won't hear her songs any time soon, after this."

"I am going to tell her that it was my idea. If it keeps her alive and well, I am more than willing to put up with her wrath.", Cullen said quietly, leaving them all baffled by his honest admission.

* * *

Shenlira charged from the small study, her fury a white-hot flame blazing in her heart. Soldiers and keep folk turned nosily as she passed by like a squall, but she paid them no heed. It had not been surprising that her inner circle tried to dissuade her from the idea of accompanying them, but that they would employ subterfuge so freely was insulting. _I'm not a child to be swaddled in wool all the time!_ Someone called for her as she crossed the courtyard, but she ignored it and instead slipped behind one of the watchtower doors. By now, the keep was so familiar to her that she knew every nook and cranny, every roundabout route she could take if she did not want to be seen. And this was definitely one of those times. As soon as she was out of sight, Shenlira fled for her little private hidey hole. On the far side of the eastern ramparts, beyond a stretch of crumbled wall. A door thought to be boarded up, and a small balcony beyond. The balustrade was half gone, a few stray bricks strewn around the ground. Ivy grew thickly up the walls and around the remnants of the guardrail, embracing the cold stone like a gold and green ornament. In the weeks since she'd been confined to Skyhold, she had roamed even the most remote parts of the keep, searching for a substitute to her rides feeding the Halla. It had not been easy. She liked the gardens, the renovation of which had been one of her pastimes after her illness, but they were always packed with priests or other keepfolk wandering between the colourful birch trees and bushes. Morrigan, who had lived in the Korcari Wilds for a long time, enjoyed to spend most of her time there, reading. Beautiful, but not a place where one would escape to in order to find grudging solitude or stew in anger. _Much better here, completely sheltered from view and surrounded by nature. As much as possible in this crowded, monumental building_. Shenlira had decorated the hideout with potted plants, even nursed the resilient little tree growing from beneath the rubble. She slumped down into a hijacked chair and pulled up her legs, staring out into the afternoon light as if she could burn a hole into the mountainside with her scowl. _The nerve of them!_ They truly had not yielded to her wish, not one of them. And now she would be confined to Skyhold for another month in which she would have to spend every day in fear for their safety. _No. If they wouldn't let me come with them, I'll simply do it without their permission_ , she decided savagely. As they had done to her. Slowly, a plan formed in her mind. A considerate part of her was appalled by acting against her friends' – and Cullen's – explicit consent. And another, much more reckless and irritated part told her she had every right to. They did not know about the note from the Weaver's Chosen… _If you yearn to meet your match, you should start by searching the place where your mother's downfall began._ She simply could not let Cullen go to the Wycome Circle without her, the exact place the note was referring to in her suspicions. The sky darkened slowly as she kept brooding on the inside, carefully considering how she would follow them. She did not know how much time had passed when she became aware of someone standing at the balcony door.

"So this is your sanctuary inside the keep." Cullen's voice, quiet and comforting. At any other time, she would have been delighted by the thought that even in her anger at him, his presence felt soothing. But at that moment, it was just annoying. She kept her face averted, holding her silence. The sound of footsteps meant that he'd come closer to stand right beside her. She could even hear his measured breaths.

"You were quite hard to find, if that consoles you.", he went on. When she still did not answer or look at him, he called her name softly. "Lira? Won't you talk to me?"

"I'm still furious with you, Sajnalin.", she informed him coldly. "You plotted behind my back, excluding me. You want to leave me behind, all alone, while you walk into dangers unknown." She heard a shuffle and some undefinable movements. The next moment, he reached for her tightly knit fingers and gently pried them apart, taking both of her small hands into his large ones. He let his thumb run along the darkened skin of her palm, where the Anchor lay dormant. The mark was shaped like a bolt of lightning. Shenlira couldn't help it. She turned, momentarily side-tracked to find him kneeling beside her chair. She looked down into the depths of his dark eyes, the handsome face she cherished so much. The genuine remorse in his expression twisted her insides, making her regret the harsh words.

"My love… Forgive me this act, maybe not today or tomorrow, it doesn't matter. But please, try to understand… That man managed to get to you without anyone standing in his way, bypassing every guard put in place for you. He is incredibly dangerous. As soon as you step out of Skyhold's protection, he could strike at you once more. The thought of him getting another chance to do you harm… And maybe succeeding…", he fell silent and, to her astonishment, bowed his head into her hands. Pressing his face to her palms, he heaved a great sigh. The tenderness, the reverence of this gesture almost overwhelmed her. A man who had yielded to no torture, no demon, no weakness, now kneeling with his head bowed, asking her for forgiveness. "Do you know what that thought does to me? I can't breathe. Your cries of woe during the nightmare still haunt my waking hours. When I close my eyes, I can see you there on the bed, still, like a corpse…" His distress infected her, for the connection that had grown between them over time made her feelings mirror his own without even thinking about it. Fingers traced the contours of his face in a feather-light touch, and she leaned toward him, brushing her lips softly over his forehead.

"Oh, _vhenan_ … Hush now. It's fine. Everything is going to be fine, somehow.", she crooned soothingly. Her forgiveness washed over him like the warmth of dawn filling up a valley. He stretched to embrace her. Slender arms encircled his neck and he felt her stroke his nape gently, so gently.

"Will you promise me to stay safe, inside the keep?", he whispered, pulling back a little to search her face. She regarded him, grey eyes cautious.

"I promise to stay out of trouble, as long as we are separated.", Shenlira affirmed. Her kiss was filled with affection, a beaming little flame that spread warmth all around it. But as he unwillingly let go of her sometime later, it occurred to him that she hadn't spoken the words the way he'd asked her to. She had not specifically promised to stay in the keep.

* * *

The night before his departure, Cullen returned early from his tower room. His bag of personal things had already been given to Master Dennet to be loaded onto Black. They would leave in the afternoon, having finished arranging everything they could think of to make their absence easier. After all, both the Inquisition's spymaster and general would be gone for weeks and that created some logistical difficulties. Yet nobody questioned them. The captains had taken the Commander's orders with solemn nods, understanding without explanation why he had to do this thing, in person. Shenlira had curled up on her settee with a book when Cullen entered, wordlessly closing and latching the door behind him. She looked up curiously, but before she could say anything, he was upon her, eyes stormy and intense. Sweeping her up, he kissed her with such abandon, it struck her quite senseless. No words were spoken. They didn't even make it to the bed. The settee was simply pushed aside and he laid her down on the rich, thick rug before the hearth. Skin warmed by the fire, he courted her so carefully, with a heart-melting sweetness. A gentle wonder that left her trembling beneath his touch even before he united with her, as if she were a lute humming in anticipation of a master bard's hands. And when he finally came to her, his caution crumbled and there was a fierce passion that almost bordered on desperation in the way he moved inside her. She let him take them both on a wild tumble of pleasure. Impossible to make sense of the words he muttered between panting breaths, his thrusts becoming erratic mere minutes after they'd started. They were prayers or maybe curses, praise or frantic pleas or both, she did not know. All she could make out was her name, repeated over and over in rhythm with his movements. A song of battle, thrumming, thrumming, until everything slid out of focus and the world burst into a million pieces. When she had gathered her scattered wits again, they were still joined, and she found him looking down into her face, heart laid bare in his eyes. Shenlira almost gave up her whole deceptive plan at that sight. She made one last, desperate appeal to his conscience just as he moved to relieve her of his weight.

"Don't leave me.", she whispered pleadingly. Cullen froze above her.

"The rug will make the burn mark sore, Lira.", he said in a concerned voice, misunderstanding her. She shook her head vigorously.

"No, I mean… Tomorrow…", Shenlira clarified. He didn't answer right away, handsome face strife-torn like a man who fought some great internal struggle. Sighing, he slid one hand beneath her back and effortlessly picked her up, carrying her to the bed. After they had slipped beneath the covers side by side, he surveyed her, his expression guarded.

"I care about you, more than I can say. It's…", he made a sound of frustration about his fumbling. "Maker knows I'm no good with fancy words… But I have to do this thing, Lira. I have to look that man in the eye and make him understand what he almost took from me, and I don't want you to be anywhere close when I do. Never have I done violence when I could avoid it, but this… is different." Shenlira regarded him with something close to grudging sympathy, but she could not quite keep the hurt and disappointment from showing.

"Why do you have to be most tenacious creature who walks this earth?", she gave a defeated sort of sigh. "You even managed to win Wolf Brother over to your side. It's infuriating." Her brow momentarily furrowed with annoyance, but it seemed a half-hearted thing, as though she was tired of rebuking him. Cullen propped his head on one hand, while the other, as so often, played with the locks of her dark red hair. It had come loose from its braid during their lovemaking and curled around her heart-shaped face disobediently now.

"Will you ever get tired of doing that?", she asked, sounding both vexed and amused. It made him smile.

"No.", Cullen simply answered. Then, in a curious voice, he wondered, "Why did you name him that, though? Wolf Brother." Shenlira turned thoughtful at the question for a long moment, her gaze straying into the distance.

"I like to imagine people's spirits as animals. I have roamed the homeland of wild beasts for all of my life. But you would be surprised how many people bear striking resemblances to one animal or another. Like you, you're a lion. Proud, strong… protective. Sometimes, too stubborn…", she wrinkled her nose cheekily. Then, in a soberer tone, "The wolf on the other hand is cunning, loyal if you win his trust. Unforgiving to his enemies. In the beginning when I met Solas, I was reminded of a lone wolf who has somehow lost his pack. I don't know why… There was a strange, old sadness around him, as if he were the last of his kind… So I named him Wolf Brother, by _Las'amelin_ , although much later than I named you. It shows that we are kin, in spirit." Intrigued now, Cullen wanted to know about the others.

"What animal is Varric?", he inquired, making her laugh.

"Varric is an otter if I have ever seen one. They like their games, otters. They frolic around endlessly, but also have an inherent cleverness." Her explanation prompted a whole new set of questions about all kinds of people from her inner circle.

"Describe the others, please.", he bid. Shenlira loved when he was like this. Boyish, showing a keen interest.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? Well… Cassandra is an eagle. She soars between the sky of her faith and the ground below, but then she strikes!", she emphasized this by imitating an eagle's dive for its prey. "Josephine, on the other hand, she's a hummingbird. Beautiful and joyous, while she works her little miracles. Sera, that girl is a squirrel through and through. Flit flit, gnaw gnaw, always on the move. Blackwall… he walks in quiet solitude, measured, like a great crane. Vivienne, definitely the swan. Graceful, keeping the balance, but gods they can bite when they are angry! Cole… the deer describes him best. Innocence and good-will… compassion. Leliana is difficult. Sometimes she's a raven, tricking the unaware to whisper their secrets to her, and sometimes she's the fox, crafty and shrewd, outsmarting everyone." Her mannerisms as she described each of them were incredibly entertaining.

"Dorian and the Bull?", he nudged her further.

"The Bull? Ironically, a bear. Powerful, adaptive. But woe upon you if you hurt his cubs! Dorian, so much of a pheasant in him. Attractive and confident, drawing all attention to himself. But also… passionate about what he believes in. I think that's all of them… Are you happy now?", Shenlira asked, noting his jovial expression.

"Oh, almost… You forgot one. Yourself.", he pointed out. She frowned at that.

"It feels strange to assign one to myself. But if I had to, I'd pick one of the great cats. I'm no lion though, something stealthier… A panther, maybe.", she mused reflectively. To her surprise, Cullen nodded in assent.

"That is fitting. They are quiet hunters, silent and unpredictable. And yet there is an elaborate prowess in their stride." She blushed at his words and averted her gaze. Cullen mistook it for embarrassment about his praise, but in truth she was too ashamed about her planned deception to meet his eyes just then. Silent and unpredictable described the thing she intended to do very well. But his trust, given unconditionally, blinded him to the possibility that she might disobey his earnest wish. Inside her chest, the ever-thudding muscle grew heavy, almost unbearably so. She watched his eyes close and felt his hands go still inside the depths of her hair as he drifted off to sleep. Shenlira did not want to break this man's trust after he had saved her life at great risk to himself in the nightmare. _But you said it yourself, Sajnalin. The thought that you might come to harm on this journey robs me of breath. That is just as true for you as it is for me._ She had to do this thing, even if it meant inviting his fury. And he would be furious, no doubt about it.

Their departure on the next day was an awkward affair. Shenlira tried to keep the discontent and offence from her face, but Cullen felt it as one feels a festering sore beneath the surface of one's skin. Those who accompanied him apologized solemnly to her once more. He himself put all his conflicted emotions into the kiss he gave her as farewell. Then they were on their way. When Cullen turned briefly in the saddle after they had crossed the great bridge, he glimpsed Shenlira on the battlements. Although he couldn't see her expression from this far away, he had a sudden, sinking apprehension that she had let them go way too easily. But then his attention was diverted by a question from Cassandra, pushing that troubling thought to the background.

* * *

Shenlira watched the small party disappear between the cliffs of the mountain pass. As soon as they were out of sight and the spectators had dispersed, she examined the crumbled part of the fortifications. It was quite high up, but a lot lower than the actual battlements. Yes, she would be able to rope down on this side without much fuss. Satisfied, she sought out the group of recruits she remembered from the time Cullen had given her the white quiver. As assumed, Marten was still the most susceptible to her charm. Just a little guiltily, she employed fallacious means, persuading him to take her beloved horse out for a ride this afternoon. The lad blushed bright scarlet at the way she fluttered her eyelashes and leaned in close while giving her instructions. Ash needed to run free for a bit, having been stabled inside the keep for much too long. Oh, and he shouldn't worry if she skitters off on her own, rather encourage her.

"Take off the bridle and give her a good firm clap on the behind. She'll stay close as long as she is saddled, promise.", Shenlira reassured. _Oh Marten, you'll be sorely disappointed by me_. The poor boy had no idea that the roan was trained to interpret the smallest gestures – she was a hunting horse, raised by Shenlira from the moment she'd been foaled, and those animals had to understand wordless commands. No prey would stay around if the hunter yelled loudly to his mount. For example, Shenlira took off the bridle and sent Ash on her way when she went to stalk on foot. The gesture meant ' _Be unseen until I call you back'_ , and the roan would know. She felt bad setting Marten up for failure like this, but well… _all's fair in love and war_. And this was both. After the boy had stammered his solemn oath to do exactly as she said, she returned to her quarters and packed a saddlebag. The ride to Jader would not be long, only about two days on a swift mount. Night had fallen when Marten returned with a stricken look on his face that Ash had simply disappeared. She calmed him down patiently. A single night in the surrounding woods would not hurt the animal, she would even enjoy it. He left reluctantly, promising over and over to go looking for Ash in the morning. Finally, everything was in place. Choosing a deliberately nondescript jacket with a high collar and a cowl that could almost fully cover her face, she hid Heartwood and the white quiver inside a dark cloak. Beneath the cover of darkness, Shenlira took a secret passage that led to the small balcony sanctuary and exited onto the deserted stretch of the ramparts. She pulled the hood closer and glanced around for anyone who might have seen her. Luckily, all seemed quiet, and so she tied the rope around a battlement stone with swift precision. The next moment, she dropped down the side of the wall where it was lowest, landing lightly on fresh snow after a rushing slide.

Giddy excitement bubbled up inside her. Almost free. Almost. She still had to distract the watchful soldiers on the bridge. _Quiet and sneaky now_ , she implored herself. More easily said than done. About a dozen times, she had to flick little stones from the nooks between the guardrail stones to divert the sentries. Once, they almost caught sight of her. _Your guard rotation plans are almost too perfect, Cullen_., she grumbled inwardly. _But then again, I am not so bad at being invisible._ At last, the safety of nature loomed before her and she went into its embrace, vanishing between two cliffs that lined the mountain pass. After a small maze of barren rocks, she emerged into the mountainside forest surrounding the pass down. Here, Shenlira halted and let out a soft whistle, shouldering bow and quiver. It was answered at once. Ash stepped from the blackness beneath the trees and huffed in an accusing way, as though saying ' _What took you so long_?'. Pulling forth a bridle and securing it, she apologized by humming some little melody.

The moment Shenlira leapt into the saddle, she and Ash became one being, united in purpose. This was their domain, the thrill of the chase through untamed wilderness, shrouded in shadows by the woods that frightened many others. To the huntress and her mount, the cloak of darkness was like a familiar comfort, the abundant bushes and trees all the more helpful in hiding them from sight. Only moonlight illuminated their path as Shenlira led Ash through the treacherous undergrowth, the knowledge about the lay of the land like a meticulous map in front of her mind's eye. The before plagued, burning conscience quieted inside. Her breathing attuned to Ash's light-footed canter, while her spirit sang with the sheer joy of freedom. The wind on her face was a tender caress, the rustling of the leaves like the greeting of an old friend. An owl's hoot sounded close by, a fellow hunter just waking to the wonders of the night. She felt the roan's pace quicken, infected by the excitement of her rider. They both were lost in the night-time revelry. _We hunt!_ , she cried a wordless assent towards Ash, and together they flew silently on trails only the daring and reckless would brave. _Just like old times!_ It was not prey they tracked, though. Still, they took great care not to be seen or heard. Ghosting closer to the small fellowship they were determined to follow.


	14. XIV Ship Of Discord

_Oh god I'm so sorry about the sheer... length of this chapter. I hadn't realized that I have crammed the whole journey into one long (11k words!) chapter. For some reason, I did not want to split it, because I am very fond of my chapter titles and they tie so well together... So yes, here is one big-ass chunk of text. But there is a treat at the end... Hrm, I do not write "real" smut (whatever that means), but phew, I got pretty close there I think, hehe. Specific M Warning for this chapter's end..._

* * *

 **XIV. Ship of Discord**

 _The strongest anger is almost always directed at the self.  
Cassandra_

* * *

For two hours, Shenlira rode silently through the precarious parts of the forest that flanked the mountain pass. She followed the signs of the fellowship at a safe distance and immediately came to a halt when she glimpsed the flickering light of a campfire ahead. Ash picked her way a little closer towards it, but soon Shenlira dismounted and continued on foot, signalling the roan to be unseen for a while. They had made camp in a small clearing just to the side of the road, and as she snuck noiselessly closer, she could see them sitting around the fire and talking to each other. Varric sat in full view, while Cassandra's back was turned to the side from where she approached. Cullen sat between them, flames dancing over his fine profile. Scouring a tree from which she could overlook the campsite without being seen or heard, Shenlira made herself comfortable on a solid branch surrounded by thick leaf-crowns and unwrapped a loaf of raisin bread. Leliana patrolled around the fire watchfully and Solas stood a little to the side, looking out into the dark beauty of the forest at night. But neither were true scouts, and so nobody discovered the woman in the trees above who shared dinner with them in silence.

"So, how about we lighten the mood with a game? You always love my games, don't you seeker?", Varric proposed genially, to which Cassandra merely grunted. "Ah, I see she is still reading that latest issue of Swords and Shields. How about you Curly? Chuckles?"

"Is this the time for games?", Cullen retorted in a sceptical tone. He wore full armour, cloak wrapped around his broad shoulders for warmth, a sword and a templar shield lying close at hand. The mountain nights were still quite cold, even now that spring had made it to the valleys. In the middle of reading some folded pieces of parchment, he nibbled absent-mindedly on a piece of cheese.

"Come on, I used to play this all night with Robin, the Bull and Sparkles. Everyone tells a story, and the others need to judge if it is true or made up. It's called 'Liar'. I'll demonstrate, alright?", Varric leaned back against a log. True, that game had kept them entertained through many long nights during their journeys when sleep was hard to come by. Shenlira listened eagerly, savouring little bites of the raisin bread. Cook had made her favourite in order to cheer her up.

"So a few days back, after midnight, I walk to my quarters quite drunk.-", the dwarf began.

"I believe that story to be true.", Cullen interrupted scathingly. Solas made an amused sound of assent.

"Oh very clever, Curly. Just listen. I walk along the hallway and I hear some strange sounds coming from the far side… Curious, I go to investigate, and I find a door that hasn't been closed properly. From the other side, a male voice – a sly, lewd noise, moaning… Like this, Mhhhmm Ooohh. And then, a much deeper voice 'Yeeees just like that.'. I recognized them both. The Bull and Dorian, doing something quite nasty behind not-so-closed-doors!" Shenlira almost choked, but managed to somehow not make a sound. Unbelievable! _No, it couldn't be true_ , she thought, shaking her head, while Cullen let out a scandalized noise.

"I don't even want to know such a thing! Maker's Breath, Varric – I'll never be able to unsee that mental image…", he lamented.

"That story is true, though.", Leliana chimed in from the side. "They have been together for some weeks now. Since their assignment at the Venatori stronghold…"

"I move to officially disqualify you from the game, Nightingale. You know everyone's secrets. That's cheating.", Varric commented sourly, to which Cassandra barked a curt laugh.

"But I have such a good one for you!", the spymaster teased. "Some time after we had restored order to Redcliffe, I accompanied Shenlira there for some negotiations with the arl. In the evening we were invited to the great hall at the keep and happened upon a few old bard friends of mine. They'd always been a little raucous, you know, Ferelden bards usually are. So they started teaching Shenlira this song – a horrible, bawdy version of The Templar King. They were in the middle of a verse going something like… 'The thrust of his sword is only matched by the strength in his…' Well, anyway, suddenly they all fall silent, except for Shenlira, who does not do things half-way. She finishes the verse and finds herself eye to eye with King Alistair. Apparently, he was visiting Redcliffe just at the same time as we were. Maker, you should have seen the Inquisitor's face. And Alistair only says… 'I enjoy such a melodious voice telling shameless tales about my supposed exploits.', then he invites her to continue singing. She blushed so wildly I thought she might combust.", during Leliana's tale, that was exactly what happened to Shenlira's face, up in her hiding place. Of course she knew that story to be true. _But damn, you are telling it all wrong_! Alistair simply had such a striking resemblance to Cullen, and well… He was the king! A good-looking king, one had to concede to that.

"I say that story is true. Every word. Robin has a weakness for tall, blonde, handsome templars. Are you sure there wasn't more to that story than you are telling us, Nightingale? Some secret meeting at midnight, a passionate, forbidden embrace…?", this from Varric in a distinctly taunting tone, surely supposed to agitate Cullen.

"I say it's a lie. And you won't succeed in provoking me, Tethras.", the Commander's voice carried a warning.

"You lose this one, Cullen. The story is actually true. Alistair asked us to sit with him for the rest of the evening and listened to Shenlira's songs with quite a keen interest. But, no, nothing more happened, except maybe some very subtle flirting...", she let her words hang in the air and seemed satisfied by the scowl Cullen gave her. For at least another hour, the small party proceeded to exchange stories with varying degrees of scandal. Shenlira enjoyed listening to their banter endlessly. Once, Solas wandered closer to her tree and she had a short moment of trepidation that he might spot her, even in the comforting shadows of the leaf-crown. To pre-empt any such mistakes, she slid down the tree and left her post overlooking the camp, sneaking off into the deeper woods to find some rest herself.

Around the fire, the companions had spread out their blankets and Varric was already snoring, much to everyone's disdain. Cullen had always found it hard to distinguish the natural sounds of the forest at night from the more sinister ones made by unwanted guests. He cast his watchful gaze into the shadows between the trees and wished the animals would stop their innocent scurrying and twig-breaking so he would not overhear the approach of real danger.

"It's eerie, isn't it? All evening, I have been having this strange feeling that we are being watched.", Solas pointed out quietly, following Cullen's eyes as they scanned the campsite.

"We are still in close vicinity to Skyhold. The entire path to Jader is one of the safest through the mountains.", Leliana placated him while she threw another log on the fire. Cullen sighed in a fatalistic sort of way. He had felt the same as Solas, but could not deny that Leliana was right.

"Let's hope so. If we are ambushed before we even reach the ship, I'm never going to hear the end of it from the mad woman I left behind at the keep.", he said woefully.

* * *

For two days, they followed the widening pass to the north, until the road led them out of the unforgiving cliffsides of the Frostback Mountains and down into a green valley dotted with blooming aspen trees. Little cottages were strewn between apple orchards, whose white blossoms filled the air with the distinct fragrance of spring flowers. Fat, woolly sheep grazed on the year's first green grass. Far in the distance, Jader's red tiled roofs stood overlooking the Waking Sea, like a set of painted arrowheads. It was a fishing town built on a stretch of land reaching forth into the sea, and even from far away one could glimpse the white sails of the ships anchored at the busy haven. The setting sun bathed the entire bay in a rainbow of colours that bounced back from the docile waves. Violet, red and soft lilac, all bleeding into each other on the waterscape mirror.

Although a beautiful sight lay before them, Cullen and the others were not quite glad about the timing of their arrival. The ship they had hired would not pull the anchor before dawn, and so they had to book rooms at an inn for the night. Shenlira on the other hand could not have been happier about the turn of events. After a short search, she found a farmer on the outskirts of town who kept horses in his stables and paid him an exorbitant amount of money to take care of Ash until she returned. She entered Jader under the cover of semi-darkness and made her way to the haven, taking only small side-alleys and less-travelled streets where she could pass unnoticed. Directly adjacent to the docks, where several ships were anchored with their sails neatly tied up, a fish market spanned the whole length of a wide square. At the far end stood a grand tavern with a golden sturgeon hung above the solid oak entry. By this time of the day, the market was almost deserted, but the tavern seemed full to the brim, sounds of merriment and boisterous laughter drifting from its direction. Likely it served as a gathering place for fishermen and sailors after a day of hard work. Staying well-hidden between the merchant stalls, Shenlira searched for the right ship. Which wasn't easy. A big difference wether one scouted unseen in a sheltering forest or tried to sneak around a city full of people. She froze when she passed two sailors on the docks, arguing about something.

"Tom! I told you to move the damn cargo to the lower deck an hour ago and prepare two bunks in the back cabin. Our passengers are Inquisiton. Maker's Balls, I think one of them is even the general. We can't afford to fucking slack off around these people.", said a raspy voice.

"But the First Mate said…", the man named Tom began.

"Is the First Mate the Captain of this ship? Get it done! And then get some sleep, man, we pull anchor at daybreak, when the high tide is in.", the captain snapped at him, then turned on his heels and walked down the cobbled street to the tavern. The sailor jogged off along the dock toward a ship secured behind a few small fishing vessels. Shenlira eyed it suspiciously. She knew next to nothing about sea-fare, but the size looked somewhat between a schooner and a brig. A few lanterns along the dock illuminated the gleaming wood of its hull. She could see the rounded square of its stern, with the rudder beneath an intricately fenced quarter deck. There was a tiny gallery between the two, although it didn't deserve that name since it wasn't much more than a window with a narrow sill – probably leading to the captain's quarters _. A good purchase, if I could get up there…_

Incredible luck played into her hands. The captain seemed to have dismissed most of the sailors for the night, otherwise she would surely have been spotted slinking up to the stern. With a great lunge, she managed to reach the narrow ledge beneath the window, but only just. The wood was so well polished, she slipped and barely saved herself from an icy bath in the saltwater below. Scrambling along with hands and feet, Shenlira was panting as she finally pulled herself over the railing and slipped onto the quarterdeck. Voices drifted to her from the main deck below, forcing her to quickly hide behind the stirring wheel. It took every bit of her skill to avoid the sailors and reach the hold in the deepest part of the vessel's belly, but she managed it somehow. Between the tied down carts of cargo, she found a good spot to sit out the rest of the night. The hold smelled of wax and fabric dyes. Supposedly, this was a merchant vessel transporting cloth between Ferelden and the Free Marches along the Waking Sea. There were several barrels loaded too, probably wine or brandy – Wycome was after all the biggest importer of wine in all of eastern Thedas.

It would have been so agreeable if she could have stayed hidden throughout the journey, for she had a bad feeling that this clever manoeuvre would not be greeted with kindness by her companions, especially Cullen. Facing that on a moving ship with no escape would be… uncomfortable, to say the least. But after less than two hours, she was already getting claustrophobic in her chosen nook. The water supply neared its end too. Exhausted by the rigorous chase paired with all the meticulous sneaking around, Shenlira huddled into her cloak and tried to relax her stiffened muscles. She'd done it. She had successfully infiltrated the ship to Wycome, and nobody was any the wiser _._

 _I have never been on a sea voyage before_ , she realized distractedly. What bothered her a little – besides the wrath she'd soon have to face – was the subtle movement beneath her feet. A light swaying, a sensation as though one was trapped in the belly of a giant beast, feeling every breath it took. And this ship wasn't yet moving… What would it be like out on the sea, when the waves churned several feet high and the hull creaked and moaned, struggling against such force like a dying animal? The thought turned her limbs to jelly and she had to pinch her own cheek to disperse the numbness that had spread there.

 _No turning back now_ , she thought with grim determination. The assassin, or mage, or whatever he truly was, had taunted her to come to Wycome and he would be waiting somewhere in that city of leisure and merriment, where her mother had belonged to the Circle of Magi for a while. It seemed impossible to shake the feeling that she was supposed to know this 'Weaver's Chosen'. Therefore, Shenlira had already resolved to do two things: First, as bad as the repercussions may be, she needed to tell her inner circle about the note. Cullen might kill her, but at least it served as a point in her favour for following them… Second, she needed to speak to her father. A thin hope, but he was the only person other than Marcus Vilerian who might know a man connected to her mother's past. Drifting off into an uneasy sleep, her dreams were disturbed by a high, eerie laughter and fleeting images of a crammed study with glowing crystal vials. They fell to the ground one after the other, exploding in colourful clouds. A man screamed in outrage, and all the while someone hooted and cackled without stopping for breath.

* * *

Shenlira woke with a jolt, right to a sickening nausea that almost made her cast up the contents of her stomach on the spot. She fought it down, but barely. The ship was moving for real now. It teetered beneath her and above her and all around, filling her with an irrational fear. Any moment, it might simply tip over and be swallowed by the sea. Her insides churned, the discomfort rising like a tide with each creak of the hull.

 _It's just water, just the movement of the ship as it bobs along on the waves_ , she tried desperately to convince her body that this was normal. But if it had been that easy to trick one's self, nobody would ever have been seasick at all. It didn't feel anything like the comforting motion on a horse's back during a ride. More as if the world constantly shifted in and out of balance but never stayed still. It reminded her horribly of the one time she'd been drunk on the way to Halamshiral. She wanted to cry out her anxiety, wishing she'd be back on dry land. Solid ground beneath her feet that budged to no force known to man, that grounded trees and mountains with its resilience. But she battled the urge just as she battled the urge to vomit.

For several hours, she sat in misery and tried to distract her mind from the endless seesawing, until the whole ship suddenly gave a mighty heave, then crashed against the waves in a way that made her stomach swoop. Shenlira could simply take no more. The narrow walls of the hold seemed to close in and no matter how much she panted, no air would come. Panic bubbled up like a gushing spring and she stood abruptly, clambering her way between the carts. She'd vomited twice before she reached the hatch to the main deck and scrambled up the ladder, almost clawing her way to fresh air.

"By the devil's crooked cock, what the fuck-", someone called out as the slight form of a hooded woman stumbled onto deck from nowhere, retching as if determined to spill her guts on the polished wood. Solas, who had overlooked th sea at the ship's bow, turned in surprise to the sight. Dark red hair spilled forth beneath the hood of the stowaway. On her back lay a gleaming bow of white yew, beside a lovely white quiver.

"Spirits, _Da'Assan_ …", the mage cursed under his breath, hurrying to her side. Several sailors gathered around to grab her, but he halted them with a gesture. They backed off immediately.

"Who the fuck is this?!", one asked, waving his arms, agitated. Shenlira trembled while Solas' hands on her shoulders steadied her, but the damn ship teetered on with no reprieve. Paler than chalk, her face bore the unmistakable greenish tint of sickness. Sea-sickness, most likely, Solas reckoned. Still, she managed to pull back her hood in a somewhat dignified way and turned the lapel of her cloak, showing the silver Inquisitor brooch.

"This… is the Inquisitor Shenlira Lavellan, who will shortly be in a world of trouble. What on earth were you thinking?!", Solas hissed, but she threw him a pleading look.

"Not now, Wolf Brother… This ship is making me sick to my stomach – I need… to breathe…", she managed between gasps, eyes rolling out of focus for a second.

"What goes on here?", this was the captain's voice, but as they both turned to the sound, Shenlira froze in place from dread. Behind the captain came Cullen, Leliana and Cassandra. She could literally see the realization creep unto their faces as they caught sight of her in the middle of the deck. Leliana's and Cassandras expressions went blank and unbelieving, while Cullen's hardened into a mask of cold fury. Instantaneously, she lifted her hands in a placating gesture.

"I can explain! I can-", she began, but that moment, the ship moved. Forcefully. Up, up up, and then down with a merciless lurch. She was powerless against the peak of nausea, and barely made it to the railing. Leaning over, she threw up so violently, it almost drowned out the cries of alarm close by. Stars danced in her blurred vision and she was pretty sure she fell unconscious for a short time. When she came into awareness again, she was staring up into Leliana's grim face. They must have carried her to a cabin, because she glimpsed a patch of ceiling above, almost completely blocked out by Cullen's looming figure. The look he gave her was unforgiving.

"Are you alright, Inquisitor? Solas did his spell again, but he said it wouldn't last long. The mind cannot fool the body forever. How in Andraste's mercy are you even here?", Leliana said, helping her sit up. Shenlira took the cup of water she was offered and gulped it all down, before she moved to answer. But Cullen spoke before she could, not even bothering to hide his anger.

"Explain.", he commanded. Yet it seemed the demand was purely rhetorical, for he went on without pause, "Explain why you did such a reckless thing! Why you disregard every earnest plea, every sane request we made. You snuck out, didn't you? You lulled us into a false sense of security, while you planned to follow us the whole time!", his voice rose to a yell at the end, making both Leliana and Cassandra flinch.

"Cullen.", the spymaster cautioned, but there was no stopping the rage he was talking himself into.

"No! Don't protect her! Let me hear it, Shenlira. The truth.", he barked. The edge in his tone could have cut stone. The use of her full name bode very ill. _Distance_ , it issued. Well, she had known it would be like this, but the cold glint in his eyes stung more sharply than the crack of a whip.

"I had to. I told you over and over, please don't leave me behind! I begged and pleaded, but you all wouldn't listen. I couldn't bear the thought that something might happen to you, to either of you. So yes… I followed you in secret. But I never lied!", she defended herself. A dangerous expression flashed over Cullen's face.

"You promised, damn you! You promised you'd stay safe inside the keep!", he snapped, a balled fist coming down on the table with a vicious crash. Shenlira had never seen him like this.

"Cullen, calm yourself.", Leliana warned him once more, to no avail. He paced the room like a thunderstorm made manifest, cloak whirling around him.

"I did not promise that, Sajnalin. My words were 'I will stay out of trouble as long as we are separated.' I'm sorry if-", but he turned to face her, eyes scorching.

"Maker help you, Shenlira, _don't_ try to distract me with your damn elusive wordplay. You betrayed all of our trust!", he bellowed, too unhinged to contain the volume of his voice. Probably everyone on the ship could hear him. Shenlira swallowed against the knot building in her throat. She kept her tone even with great difficulty.

"The Weaver's Chosen sent me a note. A raven in the middle of the night.", she then proceeded to repeat the note to them, word by word. Their expressions ranged from worried to furious, but all of them fell silent for a long moment, even Cullen.

"Turn the ship around.", he then said curtly, supposedly to Leliana, who shook her head. Shenlira reared in alarm.

"We need to ask my father if he knows anything. And you can't approach the clan without me! They wouldn't even receive you. Besides, I know Wycome and its vicinity better than any of you. Leliana – you know I'm right!", Shenlira met her spymaster's gaze beseechingly and held it. The woman looked torn, but she had always been the shrewdest of them all.

"Despite the fact that you did go behind our backs and outfoxed us… I think you may be right.", Leliana began and immediately halted Cullen when he opened his mouth to cut in. "You are blinded by anger right now. Your judgement is clouded. My agent is in danger. I cannot turn the ship around and lose several days while we cart her off to Skyhold. And what then? Lock the Inquisitor in the dungeons?" Shenlira suspected bitterly that he would have liked nothing more than to put her behind bars right now, judging by the way he glared at her.

"I don't like this. I wouldn't have thought this of you, my friend. You should feel ashamed of yourself.", Cassandra said, regret and insult ringing in her stern voice. Then, grudgingly, "But it seems nothing can tie you down if your mind is set on a task. I only hope this does not end badly."

Cullen gave Shenlira one last, quelling stare that made her shiver, then he turned on his heels and strode from the cabin, slamming the door with such force, it was a wonder the hinges did not break. As soon as he was gone, the tension crashed down on her like an avalanche and she buried her face in her hands.

"Oh what have I done? I have never seen him so angry…", she wailed, inhaling a shuddering breath. Leliana and Cassandra exchanged a stricken look over her head. "I should be ashamed, Sandra. But I'm not. I'm beyond that." She let her hands sink to her lap and looked at them, resolute.

"I can't tell you where it comes from, but I have a terrible feeling about all of this… It's as if… a crucial piece is missing from the puzzle. And even the smallest blind spot can be fatal with this assassin. I knew Cullen would be angry, but… I just hope I have not broken something beyond repair…" Cassandra stood and walked over, letting a hand rest on her shoulder.

"Sooner or later, love forgives. But until then, you should think about this, Shenlira: In a relationship between equals, differences are not solved by rash decisions. You should know this already.", the seeker said gently. "Compromise brings balance. Bending a little when it's necessary. If you think about it, it's a small price to pay, for a man who walks through fire and nightmare for you."

"Great… I know you mean well, Sandra, but now I feel even worse." Shenlira threw her a look of misery.

"Well, life would be easy if we could live without remorse. But what measure of meaning would anything have if we did? You'll have to endure the consequences for this, I am afraid. Guilty conscience included.", Cassandra remarked, with just a hint of compassion.

Leliana had been right about Solas' spell. It held the sea-sickness off for less than half a day. After that brief reprieve, it returned with full force. Varric, who was much less surprised than the others that she had managed to follow them, sat by her side when the retching started once more. He had accompanied her on the majority of her journeys and more than once been part of some erratic plan to take over a keep or bandit camp. Nothing she did threw him anymore.

"I went along with Curly's plan to leave you behind, for it seemed the right thing to do. But I had a feeling you might do something like this, Robin." He handed her a cup of water. "Remember the Northern Hunter on the fields to Crestwood? We had just come from draining the lake, my boots were still sticky with sludge – when that dragon landed fifty feet from us. 'Should we replenish our supplies before we take this thing on?', I asked. 'No, we hunt!', you say and the Bull charges right at her with you on his heels. 'Great. We'll be nice and crispy after this.', Dorian said to me." The story was meant as an attempt to distract her.

"You're not telling it right. The Bull charged first.", Shenlira managed between irregular breaths. Varric snorted.

"That's not how I remember it. I distinctly remember fighting a damn dragon with my ass freezing in my damp breeches as though I'd soiled myself.", her friend said in a scathing undertone. It made her laugh shakily.

"Ah, Varric… I'm glad at least one of you isn't raving at me about my stupid behaviour." She sounded distinctly despondent. No doubt she was referring to Cullen, who had done little else during the last days but to skulk and glare at her.

"It's hard to stay angry at you when you seem unable to keep down a single bite of these disgusting sea rations. You look wretched. I think you're suffering enough.", Varric pointed out kindly.

"Maybe this is the righteous punishment for my foolishness. You know I have never been at sea before? But I thought, how bad can it possibly be? People do this all the time. Ugh, I should have known better. It just never stops moving…", she lamented before she heaved again, accompanied by pathetic sounds.

* * *

They had not been on the ship for long when Shenlira found a place at the very front of the forecastle deck, just where the bowsprit began, pointing outward from the hull like a spear. The constant bobbing was fairly endurable here and she swaddled herself in blankets against the brisk sea wind, spending hours just looking out over the railing onto the waves. The Waking Sea stretched hundreds of miles long between Ferelden and the Free Marches, even so far that it reached Val Royeaux in Orlais. Yet it was quite narrow in width. Three days into the journey, they came to a place where it thinned to a mere canal between Kirkwall and a cluster of islands above Lake Calenhad.

The impressive city state rose from the mists, its walls hewn into the very cliffs where it stood indomitable, as though carved by the hands of a creature of incomprehensible scale The ship crossed beneath towers bound together by giant chains, sailed close enough so Shenlira could get a good look of the sentinel statues at the entrance into the haven. It seemed impossible that things this size could have been made by humans. Everyone in her company came to the deck to view the remarkable sight. She would have loved to ask Cullen about the city, since he had spent several years here, but he only stood at the railing with a stony expression that prohibited her from approaching him as effectively as a granite wall would.

Varric joined her though, and her friend had no qualms about pointing out several structures while they passed through the bay of Kirkwall. He'd lived there most of his life.

The sea stayed calm until Kirkwall disappeared from view behind them, swallowed by mist. But soon, it started churning again as the ship left the narrow canal and the waters became deeper, more unpredictable. The weather took a turn for the worse. For several days, the skies were grey and overcast, drizzling rain down without an end. Simultaneously, the sea-spray splattered any clothes that had managed to stay dry. Even her undergarments were damp, but Shenlira still went to the bow as much as she could, for it was the only place where the air felt breathable, easing her nausea.

On one of these gloomy afternoons as she sat and watched the distant Vimmark Mountains float by, Solas walked up to her, his expression worried.

"You are going to catch a terrible cold out here. Maybe you should get inside and warm up a bit, _Da'Assan_.", he pondered.

"I would rather catch a cold than be inside that oppressive cabin. It's so much worse in there…", Shenlira answered with a rueful sigh.

"Should I do the spell again? It worked for a few hours at least.", Solas suggested, surveying her pale features.

"Maybe when I go to sleep later. But thank you for your concern, Wolf Brother." He sat down across from her, silent for a long moment. Shenlira's gaze strayed to the far side of the deck, where Cullen and Leliana were speaking to the captain. He seemed to sense her watching him, for he looked up and their eyes met shortly before his expression turned forbidding. Solas spoke again, his tone somewhat tentative.

"It will pass." She didn't quite know if he meant the sea-sickness or the grudging, angry silence from Cullen. Without a doubt the heaviest repercussion of her unwanted pursuit. Seeing her questioning look, he elaborated, "The anger, I mean. It was him who asked me to speak to you about getting inside just now. He might be furious – it ripples around him, a smouldering fire. But he can't refrain from being concerned for you. He reaches out, unconsciously, as if by mere instinct. Feelings of stillness, of a steady world that does not rock, bob and shift, like threads of gossamer draped over your consciousness." Shenlira regarded him, mystified.

"I don't understand… Is it magic?", she asked. He smiled faintly at her question, his features inscrutable.

"Is it magic that lets a mother know when her child is hurting? Or that makes a lover wake from the nightmare his beloved is having, to be able to comfort her? What is magic truly, if not a torrent of power harnessed from the Fade, the realm of all things incorporeal, of emotions, spirits and dreams, shaped to a mage's will? What he does is so much more subtle, imperceptible if one doesn't know where to look. Being able to communicate a feeling without words, to perceive that what links people to each other goes beyond the physical world… Well, that may be the most basic form of magic." Shenlira listened in wonder. She had always enjoyed him speak about the Fade. Likely she would never meet anyone who had such knowledge of it as he did.

"It sounds so beautiful… But I thought the templar don't do magic… they deny their connection to the Fade, don't they?", she queried, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders.

"That is what many think, a very simplified view that is far from the truth. If they had no connection to the Fade at all, they would be like the Tranquil. Imagine people as trees, their roots buried in the ground that is the physical realm, while their trunks and crown grow into the Fade. Most people are no more than saplings, they never grow tall enough to truly experience the ethereal realm. Mages have grand crowns that spread out wide, yet their roots are mostly shallow, and so a storm, a disturbance on the surface might unhinge them – do you see what I'm saying? Templars… are the opposite. Rooted so deeply into the physical world that their crowns can seldom be shaken at all. But that also makes them rigid, unmoving – not like the mage tree's leaves that sway endlessly in the whispering spirit wind. Templars have a very specific sort of – for lack of a better word – magic, a set of skills which are all based on the notion of making reality inflexible, creating a field where the Fade cannot 'move', a spell cannot be cast." Shenlira's eyes had gone wide during this allegorical description. Until then, nobody had succeeded in explaining this complex, subtle difference to her.

"Cullen even takes those skills further. He not only locks the space around him to reality, but his willpower reaches into the Fade and… how do I say this? He makes it _believe_ the things that are real to him. And he does it without Lyrium. It takes an iron focus to do such a thing. I saw him use that ability in your nightmare.", the mage went on, distinctly impressed. Shenlira gave him a small smile.

"You almost sound like you admire him." Solas raised one eyebrow at her teasing tone, which made him look like the textbook stereotype of an arrogant elf.

"I do. That surprises you? Did you think I was above admiration? Shame on you, Little Arrow.", he retorted, eyes dancing.

"Oh, you know what I mean! Nobody wins your friendship in a day. You're not exactly forthcoming about yourself, you know.", she said pointedly.

"Are you perchance being holier than the Divine? But I really do admire his noble spirit. I guided him through the maze of your nightmare, and such a journey, by its very nature, creates… ties. So I made a human friend. You may pick your jaw off the ground now.", this with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"I am glad that you did. I just hope you are right, and the anger will truly pass… Ah, Solas… Thank you. You distracted me from being miserable for a while. I appreciate that." Shenlira regarded him gratefully. "Maybe you're right, I'll warm up inside the cabin for a bit now.", she then added, before she stood and walked away towards the door of the captain's cabin. Unseen by her, Solas and Cullen exchanged a lingering look. The Commander bowed his head, while the mage nodded affirmatively.

The horrible seasickness went on for a whole week, to a point where Shenlira truly began to think she was receiving some sort of divine punishment. It was especially bad during the nights in the cabin. She often woke to the flickering light of the lantern swaying above. A mocking reminder how the world just kept teetering out of control. In the middle of a particularly vicious attack, she lay draped over the bucket like a wet washcloth, mourning the pitiful state she had brought upon herself so thoughtlessly, when she suddenly felt a familiar touch at her nape. She turned her head to see Cullen seated on a rickety chair. His eyes were unreadable as he leaned forward and gathered the strands of hair that had fallen over her face. He did not say a word, but just held her hair until the worst passed. All the while his warm, steadying hand stayed, laid against her neck, tethering her. Afterwards, he carried her to the tiny bunk where she slept and wrapped her in blankets. Shenlira met his gaze, but it felt as though the recent fight still hung too heavily between them. The anxiety sealed her throat shut. She had no way of knowing what expression was on her face, but she saw some fleeting emotion cross Cullen's stern features, and for a moment he looked as though he was about to say something. But then… Gone. He straightened, closing the door behind him as he left the cabin. Neither of them had spoken at all and he had not stayed _. But he cares more about my welfare than he cares about punishing me with distance…_ It made her hopeful that soon they might get a chance to resolve this whole mess with each other.

* * *

The ship had left Ostwick well behind when her exhausted body finally got used to the seesawing and a whole day passed without her being sick once. A general feeling of discomfort lingered, but that was much more endurable. Shenlira pushed all thoughts about undergoing the same ordeal on the way back aside. Instead, she toyed briefly with the idea of convincing her friends to journey home on land. Of course it was a ridiculous notion. Still, she filed it away for further investigation later.

At last able to enjoy a bit more of the surroundings and the marvellous sights a sea voyage could offer, she spent the remaining days on deck. Either investigating the ship itself or watching the coast rush by far away, the waves ripple as the streamlined hull cut through them. Luckily, the captain had soon accepted her despite the rocky entrance she'd made as a stowaway. One benefit of being the Inquisitor, she guessed blithely. The sailors were impressed by her trickery and eager to answer all of her questions about sea-fare, even the names of each and every sail – of which there were seven all in all. They taught her nautical language and complicated knots. In the evenings when they played dice and sang salty tunes, the colourful swearing made her ears burn.

As the ship sailed farther north, the climate transformed from the moderate, cool spring it had been at Ferelden to a benign, airy warmth that spoke of lush summers and short winters. The sky turned vividly azure, sprinkled with cottony white clouds. Even the sea changed, now clear and translucent like a shining green-blue gem that fractured sunlight into countless facets. Shenlira glimpsed dolphins beneath the surface, their gleaming bodies like silver arrows. So quickly they rushed on and held speed with the vessel! She couldn't suppress a cry when they started leaping from the water in joyful pursuit, their whistles and clicks mingling to a strange laughter. She had read about these creatures, even perused illustrations of them in books, but seeing them in the flesh was a wondrous thing to behold.

"First time you see dolphins, M'Lady? They escort us for miles sometimes. Look, there's the leader!", one of the sailors hanging from the ropes above the fore mast pointed outwards and Shenlira watched a dolphin jump so high it seemed to be flying, its skin the pristine white of a pearl. The view fascinated her so much, she stayed leaned far over the railing and stared avidly at the beautiful animals, until Leliana called her to a meeting in the captain's cabin.

Now that her unexpected appearance had added a wildcard to their general plan, it needed some readjustments. Cullen was still determined to send her back on a ship the minute they reached Wycome, but in this issue Shenlira stayed adamant, much to his aggravation. The only thing they truly decided was that Shenlira and Solas would seek out clan Lavellan, while Varric and Leliana searched the city for any clues about Light-Foot and the Weaver's Chosen. Cullen wanted to investigate the Circle tower with Cassandra and the soldiers in the meantime, but Shenlira and Leliana disagreed, finding it wiser to wait if the visit to the clan brought any new insight. This spawned a whole new argument that ended in no decision at all, but a whole lot of grudge on both sides.

* * *

The uncomfortable discord lasted through the last days of their journey and right up into the evening hours when the lights of Wycome became visible in the distance, drawing closer by the minute. The nights in these parts were mild, but the atmosphere was burdened by a distinct chill as the ship drew into the harbour and dropped anchor. The fellowship disembarked and while Varric settled the payment with the captain, Shenlira realized that her feet were treading close to home for the first time since she had left almost a year ago. It had been her longest absence ever from the clan, and she felt a strange mix of anticipation and regret. The circumstances of her return were not the most pleasant ones. And yet, her heart danced a little at the sight before her. Even by night, the bright colours of Wycome, city of leisure, were vivid. Lit by countless lanterns that hung from criss-crossing ropes between the rows of neatly painted buildings. Shop signs were posted everywhere along the sidewalks, pointing to merchants selling this and that, from wine over dried flowers to furniture and fine clothes. The streets were still busy with people, both fashionable ladies and everyday citizens dressed in simple linen. Yet all of them looked a bit softer than residents of Ferelden or cities like Kirkwall, as though they had lived close to the sun for most of their lives, knowing fewer privations.

"We should find an inn for the night. There is no point in setting out for the clan encampment at this hour.", Leliana remarked quietly, since several pedestrians were casting them curious gazes. Shenlira realized that the companions must look completely out of place. Two armed, seasoned warriors in a peaceful town, followed by an eccentric elven mage and a dwarf with a giant crossbow on his back. Cullen and Cassandra walked on either side of her as Shenlira guided them through the spiderweb of alleys and streets. They both kept an alert vigil and seemed uneasy, as though they expected to be attacked at any time, even though their path was anything but deserted. It would have been exaggerating to say that Shenlira knew the city well, but she had visited it a dozen times before and was fairly familiar with the general layout.

"At least put your hood back on.", Cullen hissed, startling her. She obeyed, although the edge in his tone had stung. Her mood turned miserable again. _Will you ever stop being angry with me?,_ she speculated in his direction. Brooding internally, she almost led them past the dark blue walls of the _Glossy Starling_ , one of the biggest inns in Wycome, several stories high and well frequented. The ground floor served as a tavern and gathering place for the guests. It soon became apparent that there might not be many vacant rooms left. The place was crowded and lively inside, the scent of roasted meat and spices mixing with the herbal smell of pipe-smoke to create the unique blend of an evening spent with indulgence. The others stood in complete silence as Leliana and Varric had a lengthy, animated discussion with an exuberant innkeeper. Afterwards, Varric subtly beckoned Shenlira over to him and handed her a key with a number carved into a wooden key fob. He eyed her appraisingly.

"How about a drink? You look like you need one.", her friend proposed. Oddly, he kept his voice quite low. Shenlira glanced at Cullen from the corner of her eye. With his imposing armour and austere posture, he stuck out from the cheerful, boisterous surroundings like a black ink dot on pure white parchment. She shook her head.

"I fear my company would not be much fun today… No, I think I'd rather go to bed.", came her morose reply.

"Well, a drink would have mellowed you a little for this next thing. The inn is almost booked to full capacity. I had to get you and Curly a shared room." Shenlira paled at his words, so he immediately went on before she could open her mouth to object. "It will be alright, Robin. He's been stewing in his anger for a fortnight. He's sick and tired of this state but too stubborn to admit it. And every time you turn your back, he looks at you the way a puppy looks at its favourite bone, just out of reach."

"Really? Is that the metaphor you want to go with?", she queried, dripping with sarcasm. Varric made an exasperated sound.

"Don't elude, lady. Screw your courage to the sticking place and just get it over with.", he implored earnestly. "I will try and soften him up a bit. You run along now." Shenlira gave him look both quizzical and apprehensive, but then she heaved a sigh and bid the others good-night, climbing the stairs at the far side of the tavern, a nervous flutter in her stomach.

* * *

The spacious suite the innkeeper had given them had already been warmed up by a merry fire beneath a fine brick mantle. A solid bed stood at the far wall, its frame carved from a handsome chestnut wood, the covers bearing a colourful check pattern, like plaidweave. The rest of the furniture matched the bed in style, nothing terribly luxurious but still lovely craftsmanship. Yet Shenlira could have been encircled by mounds of rubbish for all the attention she paid to her surroundings. A dread sort of apprehension tendrilled its way through her. She had not been alone with Cullen for any length of time since the ugly fight after her cover was blown on the ship. Every interaction between them since then had been monosyllabic, if he'd spoken to her at all.

The one thing that managed to distract her was a tiny bathtub filled with warm water behind a flowery folding screen. It seemed the innkeeper had ordered the room to be readied the minute they had entered the _Glossy Starling_. Shenlira slipped into the water and savoured the opportunity to wash away the smell of sickness and seawater. Despite the unease, she rinsed her entire body with the piece of chamomile-scented soap the maids had provided and was a little disgusted when the water turned murky. Well, they had been at sea for two weeks.

Afterwards, she refilled the tub, then dried her hair by the fire and got dressed again. Somehow the thought of putting on her nightshirt seemed strange under the circumstances. Unable to sit still, she began an agitated pacing around the room, circling endlessly between the compact dinner table and the elaborate vanity lining the walls on either side. A good hour must have passed during which she just wrung her hands and fretted. The turn of the doorknob startled her. Cullen entered and closed the door behind him, then froze at the sight of Shenlira standing in the middle of the room. His expression turned unreadable, after a fleeting second of some strong sentiment. Gone too quickly for her to understand its meaning. Without a word to acknowledge her presence, he proceeded to remove his armour and gloves. She watched him pull off his shirt as he stepped behind the screen and soon, there were splashing sounds coming from the other side. Even though the whole situation was dire, she couldn't help the tingling sensation low in her stomach when she imagined his naked body, skin glistening wet, muscles flexing. Her mouth went dry. She shook herself to disperse those unruly thoughts. _Now was not the time!_ A few minutes later, Cullen stepped from behind the paravent. He'd changed into fresh clothes and now ran a hand through his damp hair, watching her from the corner of his eye while he fed the fire. The prolonged silence felt like a pressure on the ears. Inexplicably this spoke louder to her than any yell or scream. Shenlira had to clear her throat twice before she trusted her voice not to squeak with discomfort.

"They… they didn't have more rooms left, and Leliana and Sandra are already sharing, so… so we have to-", she stuttered somehow, but he interrupted her, seemingly not having listened.

"Don't you trust my skill in battle at all?", he suddenly demanded without preamble. Stunned into silence, Shenlira couldn't answer immediately. "I trusted you to keep your word! That you would stay at the keep so I could prove that I can protect you, without the whole Inquisition at my back!", his voice rose and she flinched back from it. Not out of fear, but for the unveiled insult that rang in his words.

"Sajnalin…", she began, utterly dumbstruck about his strange line of thought. He turned his angry gaze at her, face taut but for one muscle twitching dangerously at his jaw.

"Yes! Sajnalin, that is what you named me. But you won't let me live up to that name, would you? It's the one thing I call my own. I protect. That is what I do, what I have always done!", he made a sweeping, fierce gesture. All through the sea voyage, he had been cold and distant, keeping his anger locked tightly inside himself. For the sake of her miserable seasickness and the lack of privacy. She realized mournfully that it hadn't diminished.

"But you did, you did protect me, so many times I lost count. In the nightmare-"

"By a thread, Shenlira! Maker, by a hair's breadth – and what do you do?! You ignore all I tell you, disobey me and come after me, when the stakes are so fucking high! I wanted cut this danger away, this one danger from the countless others you willingly walk into, but it's impossible with you! You elude my will, you slip through my fingers like sand, I can't hold you, you won't stay still, not even for me!" He didn't bother to leash his temper anymore, and Shenlira felt that it boiled and came unravelled in front of her eyes, like a dam breaking loose. He stalked her, eyes two glinting shards of amber, and she backed away until she hit the edge of the table, her stumbling feet overthrowing a chair.

"No, don't think you'll get away.", he hissed as his hands grabbed her by the shoulders. He shook her, with much less force than she expected. The undiluted physical strength was still palpable in his grip and she suddenly understood without a doubt why men feared to meet him in battle. She could smell that he'd drunk – brandy, perhaps? Something earthy. Probably Varric had persuaded him to, unknowing that it might only serve as a catalyst for his already thinned restraint. Yet, the scent mixed with the unique fragrance of his clean, male skin, distracting her.

Being so tightly held, she should have been afraid of him. The intense expression, the helpless fury that lashed out from him like whips of flame, it should have made her want to run. But epiphany dawned as she looked up into the face of the man she loved more than anything else in the world. Not anger alone distorted those noble features, but desperation, fear. This was how he dealt with fear when he felt backed into a corner. His entire life had revolved around control. He had mastered it in body and mind, always knowing how to employ that to others by using his singular willpower. Control of the self, taught to him by years of templar training. Control over magic threatening to come unbalanced, by locking reality down through sheer resolve. Control over the soldiers he sheltered beneath his wing, grooming them to become weapons, planning precisely where each of them would serve the cause best. And when he had stopped taking Lyrium, it had been the height of a life lived with incredible discipline.

Now he had come to love a thing he could not control. It frightened the wits out of him. All influence, all power, all his will could not tie her down or make her stay still if she did not want to. A part of him adored her untamed spirit, the keen flame that burned inside her like a tiny sun. But in a situation like this, where she could be taken from him in a mere instant and he would be powerless to stop it from happening, bereft of the skills to protect that he held in such high regard – that was the reason for his irrational anger. All of these things Shenlira understood in the few moments his searing gaze burned into her. And with the knowledge came the certainty about the right thing to do now. It took some courage, but she went lax in his grip, making herself soften, pliable.

"You wish me to yield? I yield. I will stay still, for you.", she said in a mere whisper. This stopped him short. Cullen looked at her, incredulous. She felt something change inside him, in the way he held her, instantaneously, as wind suddenly turned from East to West. He inhaled raggedly.

"No. Damn you, you're supposed to defend yourself. Fight back." She startled when he pulled her toward him, bending his head and burying his face at the hollow of her throat. The heated rush of his breath sent a bolt of arousal along her spine.

For almost two weeks, he hadn't touched her at all. She'd gotten so used to the intimate closeness of him every night, she was starved for it, full of yearning. Now, the whole length of his body pressed against hers, his hold so tight it almost hurt. _Yes_! Her skin crawled with the intense reaction. Almost a reflex. Instinctively, her hands came up to bunch into the fabric of his shirt. "You're the most infuriating, stubborn creature that ever crossed my path. But Maker help me, how you make my blood run with fire…"

Shenlira couldn't have replied if she'd wanted to, for suddenly his lips started ravishing the sensitive skin on her neck, moved upward to the line of her jaw while his hands were suddenly everywhere. They worried the buttons of her jacket, pushed beneath the fabric of her breeches to grab her backside, rubbed her against the wicked, hard ridge between his thighs. Teeth scraped along her lower lip, biting, demanding. The kiss was close to bruising, his tongue invading and claiming her mouth possessively until she lost all ability of clear thought.

This wasn't the tender lover from the weeks past. This was some darker, volatile side of him, untethered by her words after weeks of strain and reckless behaviour. An anger turned lust, or lust fuelled by anger, or maybe some combination of the two that created a thing so explosive. Cullen succeeded in pulling her jacket aside but it wasn't enough, he yanked off the breeches too. Still not satisfied, his hands gripped the folds of her undershirt and she let out a strangled cry of alarm when he ripped the fabric from collar to navel as effortlessly as if it were paper. But then the warmth of his touch blanketed her bare skin, seeking, insistent fingers pinching the hardened tips of her breasts. She was swept away in the heat of desire that raced through her with every beat of her soaring pulse.

She moaned pleadingly into the kiss, and that seemed the right thing to do, for the next moment she found herself on her back on the table, looking up at him as he loomed above her. A savage pleasure burned in his eyes at the wanton sight of her with her shirt torn, skin flushed, her bare legs wide open for him. Impatiently, he freed himself from the uncomfortable fabric of his trousers, then grasped her hips firmly and ran his whole, throbbing hardness along the heated seam between her thighs. A throaty sound of uncontained anticipation came from her lips. Damn her, she was already so wet, the sign of her arousal like a lure that could not be resisted. Still, he managed to hold back, one agonizing inch at a time as he entered her, and even then he began with shallow thrusts, never giving her more than half of his length. It drove her mad. She writhed and strained against him, legs seeking purchase to pull him closer. But he kept teasing her with the delicious friction, taunting her with the promise of more, and felt a wild, male triumph as her body trembled helplessly beneath him.

"Stop fooling around!", she suddenly gasped and reared upwards, but he pushed her back down, eyes flashing.

"Stay still.", he commanded her, knowing well that was not in her nature at all, on the contrary. She growled like a feral thing and below, her inner muscles clamped down on him so tightly he could barely keep from coming then and there.

"I can't! Not when you…", she didn't finish that sentence. Instead, he watched her chest heave once, twice, before she begged, "All of you, please!" The desperate need in her voice was likely the most exciting thing he'd ever heard. She let out a keen of frustration when he pulled back, but the next she knew he had flipped her over onto her stomach and then he was inside her again, all the way to the root. The utter satisfaction of it cleaved right through her, curled her toes and made her fingers clutch great handfuls of the discarded jacket. Gripping her waist, he started moving without preamble, at a dizzying pace that made her see stars in her blurred vision.

There was no finesse, no measure of control in the way he drove into her again and again. He wasn't gentle or cautious anymore, but took his own pleasure from her and held nothing back. Maybe, she wondered fleetingly, this had started with the intention to punish her, a show of force who was stronger, but if so, damn had it backfired. Such a wild sort of thrill to be at his mercy like this, to be the source of what made him lose all self-control and be dominated by such strength. It made her feel both powerful and utterly wicked. She didn't care that the wooden surface of the table chafed her skin, that her view was blocked by the curtain of her unruly hair, that the sounds from her lips were void of all inhibition.

When he reached around and his fingertips flicked over the tiny peak right above the place where he invaded her, it instantly flung her over the edge. She bit down hard on the collar of her jacket to keep from crying out as release took her and the world drowned in a nova of pleasure. He gasped behind her in surprise and his movements stuttered, then his body shook uncontrollably and she felt a series of frantic spasms at her core as he came inside her.

Little white dots kept dancing in front of Shenlira's eyes for several moments while her senses slowly reasserted themselves. Her legs were still shaking when she was lifted from the hard table surface with exceeding care and settled onto the blankets. After a few moments, she forced her eyes open and found Cullen looking down at her, his face stricken. Her lips formed a crooked, lazy smile.

"And you called me a savage.", she pointed out teasingly. Judging by the awkward way he pulled the torn chemise to cover her naked skin, he was shocked by what he had done.

"That… was not what I had planned. I don't know what got into me…", he muttered, at a loss to explain his wild, unhinged behaviour. But Shenlira did not seem to mind. She lifted a hand and laid her palm to his chest. Her eyes turned thoughtful, filled with a bittersweet sentiment, both joyous and sad. It was silent for a time, her attention focused on the steady heartbeat beneath her fingers. A rhythm so solid and certain that it managed to anchor her, to make the ever-dancing, ever-fluttering thing inside her own chest attune to it. Then her gaze met his, clear and sober.

"I am sorry. For betraying your trust. But who will protect this? This lion's heart that is the centre of my world? Who if not me?" Cullen watched her smooth brow furrow as she searched for words. Voicing such deep emotions had never come easily to her. "I do not slip between your fingers. You tether me to this." She took her hand away and instead pressed her face to his chest, arms closing around him in an embrace so sweet and caring, it made his lungs ache with each breath. He brushed a cheek over the silky top of her head while his fingers quested, very gently, along the jagged scar on her side where the dagger had struck.

"I am sorry too, Lira… I thought, one day, when all of this is over, when there's no more wars to fight and worlds to be put right, it will be just the two of us. I will have no army at my disposal if something happens. No powerful Fade-expert mage to guide me. I wanted to prove to myself that I would be enough, because there is nothing I want more than that future." He gave a small sigh and Shenlira felt that his fury from before had burned through most of his energy, leaving him tired and defeated.

" _Vhenan_ , you will always be enough. You have to understand one thing though – not everything is your responsibility. In this future you speak of, we are two parts of a whole. I will sometimes disobey you because I do not see the need for you to do something on your own. And you will sometimes put me in my place for my recklessness. We will manage these things somehow, meet each other half-way. But please, let me provide strength. Once in a while, let me protect you too. Otherwise I feel helpless, disgraceful." The tone with which she spoke those meaningful words was tender but firm, as though she wished him to take them very seriously. Cullen pressed a kiss into the depth of fiery locks and pulled back, his expression earnest.

"Two parts of a whole… You are not disgraceful, and your devotion is the well of my strength.", he whispered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "Each time I think I have figured you out… You do or say something I couldn't have predicted. Like saying that you yield… Would you really do that?" She pursed her lips before answering and looked a little annoyed at the question.

"I'm not unreasonable, you know. I will meet you half-way. You can go to the Circle tower without me. But!", she lifted one cautioning finger when he opened his mouth to speak. "Before, you will escort me to the clan encampment, so I might stay close by. And, since you have tortured me enough in these last two weeks, it's only fair that there shall be retribution." Cullen had a distinct sense of foreboding.

"I am going to introduce you to my father.", Shenlira stated portentously, her gaze dropping to the torn fringes of her blouse. "But if your… ravaging from before left any visible marks, you'll be the one to explain them." All colour drained from his face and he suddenly looked panicked, which spawned an incredibly smug smile to her lips.

"That… seems fair….", he managed in a troubled voice, although he sounded less than convinced. "I still can't believe I did that to you. It was… brazen, compulsive…", he apologized, but Shenlira only grinned wider.

"Oh yes, it was shameless and outrageous. And so, so wickedly good. Should I infuriate you more often, maybe?", she teased him, eyes glinting impishly.

"Maker, no! I cannot go another two weeks like that. It was hell. I missed you so, sleeping next to me… Anger and longing all at once, waking each morning with a raging… No, no, we aren't repeating that, ever. It was just too confusing, Lira." His tone was pleading, yet at the same time his gaze danced with amusement.

"We shall see." Shenlira gave a surprised giggle when he leaned over her and gave her a thorough tickling, until she was breathless and begged him to relent. "Alright, alright!", she gasped, before adding solemnly, "I missed you too… You have no idea. I don't remember when was the last time I felt so depressed. It hurt me to see you so angry, distant..." He turned grave at her words.

"Yes, I cannot deny that I was truly angry with you. But I became worried when you were so terribly seasick on the ship… I feared it wouldn't pass and you might fall seriously ill.", he confessed, gathering her into his arms.

"But you didn't speak to me.", Shenlira pointed out. Cullen frowned.

"No, I didn't. I was too insulted, livid that you would trick me like that. And at the same time, the miserable looks you gave me battered my resolve. I asked your friends to watch over you, for I wasn't ready to put the issue behind me just then. The night I couldn't bear the pitiful retching anymore, when I sat with you, I almost faltered. Such yearning was in your eyes, and such uncertainty… Like a mirror of what I felt inside. Walking away from you then was likely one of the hardest things I have done in my life." The familiar lines of his face contorted at that reminder. Shenlira burrowed closer against him. Encircled in the shelter of his embrace, her face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. That was her place of infinite safety, sanctuary. She felt his throat ripple as he swallowed, chest expanding with a deep breath. "I felt so torn asunder… I wanted to punish you, and yet all my instincts told me to comfort you."

"I love you, _vhenan_. That will never change. Not through strife and anger, through distance or hardship or years passing by. Never forget that.", he heard her whisper with a certainty that he would never have dared to question.

"I feel the same, my love.", he answered simply, the timbre of his voice enriched by emotion. She might not realize it, for a great part of her was fluid, elusive even, as morning mist upon a rippling pond. But at the very centre of her nestled a core of steel, forged in the fires of resolve.

That night both of them rested peacefully for the first time in two weeks, so closely entangled as though they were afraid the other might disappear. He joined her in the world of dreamers. They ran side by side, endlessly on. Somewhere between ageless trees and fields of high summer grass, a lion and a panther hunted together beneath the silver light of a full moon.


	15. XV Web Of Secrets, Sweetly Spun

_Geez, this is not much shorter than the one before... But A LOT of things happen. I'm not going to say more. Here be cliffhangers. Mwahah._

* * *

 **XV. Web of Secrets, Sweetly Spun**

 _Jealousy is rare, between pride and desire, kin to envy, but not as close as one might think. It wants to take selfishly that which it never had. Its hatred is cruel, a convoluted maze of spiteful emotions. And yet it can concentrate malice to the precise point of a needle, often directed at a single person. Those who succumb to Jealousy will never obtain what they truly crave. It is snatched from their hands at the last second and all that is left behind is a hollow husk that has driven itself into ruin.  
Page torn from "The Rarest Denizens of The Fade"_

* * *

The residents of Wycome slept soundly, oblivious that inside the house of their slumber they hosted a guest who had not been invited. A clandestine presence glided elegantly among them, just beyond the horizon of perception. At times, it would take on the form of unobtrusive objects as it perused their fuzzy human dreams in a way a scholar paged through a boring book. Yet, behind its idleness seethed a sinister purpose: Separate the chaff from the wheat, sift through the minds of these blind sheep, for somewhere there would come a mind with a unique signature, a scent like no other. And we are the bloodhound on the trail of that elusive cat. The timing was right now. Routinely, the entity rode along the current of dreams until it stumbled upon a consciousness of such alien nature, it turned curiously. Another Fade-walker, his attention focused on a memory of great complexity. Crystal spires breathtakingly beautiful, resonating magic in joyful remembrance. Lives never-ending, the passage of time an inconsequential thing when there was no limit to the wonders still waiting to be worked. And then sorrow, raining down like so many iridescent shards as the towers crumbled and fell, the knowledge of millennia lost with them. Suddenly, the man who dreamed this dream noticed the intruder, and his mind reached out, without a trace of hesitation or fear.

 _Fool! His skill surpasses ours in ways you cannot understand. Leave, now_!, came the warning, and the trespasser flitted away from the Fade-walker, becoming small and thin like an intangible serpent. As incredible luck would have it then, the first dream they sought refuge in was the one they had been looking for all along. Two great cats were in the middle of a joyful race, care-free and unwary. One a lion, his pelt of molten gold rippling as sunlight over a quiet pond. The other a panther, smaller, darker, her coat a deep auburn colour like the heart of a mahogany tree. Her stride felt invigorated by boundless freedom, a clean sort of turbulence that reflected the lively spirit dwelling inside.

 _Found you!_ A sleight of hand, a turn of the cards, a triumphant cry, and the tall grass around the panther changed instantaneously. Shenlira sensed another invading her dream just as the world was engulfed by darkness.

 _Here, kitty kitty_., a garbled, gloating voice beckoned. The lion by her side disappeared in smoke and her paws were treading earth no more. Instead, the ground turned to sludge beneath her and she sank, deeper with each step. Panic reared and she fought desperately against the pull of the disgusting stuff, but it swallowed her relentlessly. Gruesome, slimy hands grabbed her pelt, ripping it violently, until her strength faltered and the world went black. Then, as if surfacing from water just a minute short of drowning, she came to again and found herself looking at the thick metal bars of a cage. She caught one glimpse of the room, wreathed in glowing red light so reminiscent of blood it made her queasy. A man stood with his back turned, facing a wall that was almost completely taken up by a hideously distorted painting. Shenlira did not know why, but the thing was repulsive, somehow… obscene, yet the man seemed to be fascinated by it. The aura around him rippled with an unsettling, mad despair, as though every moment lived took him closer to some horrible fate. He yearned for death, for blissful oblivion, but he was forbidden to, body and soul enslaved to another's will. She did not have much time to ponder where that knowledge came from, though. A shadow stepped in front of her cage, crouching down and blocking her view. The Weaver's Chosen wore a hood obscuring the face beneath, but above the ivory wolf carving, two rows of teeth flashed at her in a malicious grin, like strands of white pearls.

 _So you actually let me lure you here. Has your mother never taught you the saying, kitten? Curiosity killed the cat._ And then the pain came. It was not physical, nothing so mundane. It was pure agony, a sundering of the mind, an impalement on a white-hot spear of hatred so intense, Shenlira thought she might burst apart, cleaved in twain. She could draw no breath to scream, could not flee from it. _Dream… Dream…_ From a distance that felt a lifetime away, a faint voice called out to her. Something reached through the shadows and pain, the haze of red, through the steel of her cage and the mental torture that rendered her helpless. Hands, gentler than a plume moth's wings, and at the same time so strong they could rip her from the clutches of any nightmare.

 _Dream… It's a dream, Lira! Wake up!_ Cullen. Was it truly a dream she was in? If it was… Solas had said…the most basic form of magic was – What? _A link that transcends the physical world_. So she did the only thing she could think of. She threw the name she had given him far and wide, willing him to aid, to protect.

 _Sajnalin, take me from this place!_ And unfailingly, he did. His consciousness wrapped around her like armour, like a second skin, impenetrable and shielding. The pain faded. She could not be held captive any longer.

Shenlira woke with a violent shock, shooting bolt upright in the bed. Cullen was right beside her, keeping one arm around her shoulders as she gulped for air frantically.

"What happened? One minute you were with me, then… you simply disappeared from the dream. I couldn't rouse you, you wouldn't wake up!", he sounded agitated, even panicked, and she supposed it had reminded him too vividly of the Architect's nightmare. She soothed him by patting his hand, while her heart calmed to a normal pace.

"A bad dream, I think… I…", Shenlira trailed away for a moment, trying to remember, but it was fading so quickly even now, inching out of reach with every passing second, as dreams often did. "I was in a terrible place. There was a man, no two people, and a painting that frightened me… I remember… someone saying that curiosity killed the cat? Is that right? And then only pain, so much of it… Just a nightmare, right? Just…", she didn't go on, sounding uncertain. Cullen regarded her, worry written plainly on his face.

"What do you mean, Lira? What else do you think it could have been?", he asked in an anxious tone. She gave him a helpless look.

"I don't know… I can't even remember it anymore. It's gone. And yet I can't help but think that I saw something important… The Weaver's Chosen… Could it have been him? Solas thinks he is a mage, a powerful one. Can mages do that? Can they make people… hurt… in a dream?", she wondered. A shudder went through her and Cullen squeezed her reassuringly.

"I'm not sure… I have never heard of a mage who could do such a thing. That sounds more like something a demon would do. And it didn't… feel like the Architect's nightmare had felt. It was more as if you were suddenly… displaced, simply not where you should be. It near panicked me, so I reached for you. You were… inside a cage, or was it an orb… Maybe it was both.", Cullen tried to explain, but how did one rationalize anything that happened in dreams? He must have sounded like a lunatic, for the words didn't make sense, not even to him.

"What did you do?", Shenlira asked, bewildered. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

"You told me to take you away from that place. So I did.", he simply stated, as if that answer was self-evident. When she kept looking at him blankly, he elaborated, "If I concentrate very hard, I can… sense your presence. You have to be close by, ideally skin against skin. Mostly, you are simply… there, beyond your physical body, your spirit like a little flame. But sometimes, when you sleep, you leave this small door open for me and allow me into the landscape of your dreams. In there, I am Sajnalin as you see me, and I will heed your call always. That thing simply _is_. Your wish, made real by me." She seemed speechless at that revelation, merely nodding as she accepted it as truth.

* * *

The exact moment when Shenlira had woken, someone else, neither close by nor very far away, flinched back from a glowing red orb as the dream-binding spell was torn apart and discharged with searing energy. Blood flowed and swirled inside the depths of the orb. Life-force that could create magic of terrifying beauty. But only an instant later, another vicious eruption followed and the glass surface cracked clean through the middle, spilling the dark red fluid all over the table. _Useless!_

The Weaver's Chosen hissed in outrage, rubbing one hand where the spell's destruction had backfired.

"This is the second time that bastard templar has thwarted me. I want this… lion caged and chained, and then I'll shear his mane like a sheep. How does he do it? You were supposed to warn me about abilities like these!", those angry words were directed at the man facing the giant painting, hung between a garland of scarlet crystals that grew as tall as the room was high.

"I did not think such an ability existed. It's likely even unique to him. A few develop special skills that reflect some very strong personality trait. It usually happens over years, decades, and so very rarely. Impossible to predict such a thing.", the man answered, rough voice void of all emotion.

"You are just as useless as this dream-binding orb. Only good for one thing, templars. I would have loved to watch you kill one of your own again, but I've changed my mind. Get me the templar, or general, or whatever he is – alive. We'll see how long he might last in his own nightmare.", the Weaver's Chosen said, looking up with a smile, to the giant shards of red lyrium that spiralled menacingly above, like bloodied vines. They seemed to hum their frightening, gorgeous song in anticipation to those words.

* * *

The riverlands surrounding Wycome were reminiscent of an abundant Veridium gemstone, streaked with fine Silverite threads. Streams that ranged from less than a few feet wide to broad, impressive currents meandered between the lush forest and grass plains. The trees here looked almost too green to be real, thick trunks overgrown with moss, vibrant crowns saturated by the nutrients the rivers brought in from the sea. Everything brimmed with life. Birds chirped their morning reports towards each other in what seemed to be an eternal conversation. Squirrels flitted between the bright leaves. Cullen even saw deer once in the distance, led by a watchful stag who kept a ceaseless vigil over his subjects.

Solas and Shenlira rode to his right, all three of them on mounts they had been allowed to borrow from one of Wycome's stablemasters. Closer to the city, the roads had been very well-maintained, but soon Shenlira had diverted their course from the wide main path onto something that was little more than a hunting trail hugging the flow of a crystalline river. They had spoken to Solas about the troubling dream, and the mage had looked worried even before they had finished the story. It seemed he'd encountered a fleeting presence in his own dream during the night, but the intruder had fled before he could chase it down. Although he didn't dismiss the possibility that the Weaver's Chosen might have been behind it, Solas told them it was impossible to say for sure. Just as likely that a trickster spirit got curious about something in Shenlira's dream and hoodwinked it to see what would happen. Still, the mage spent the time of their journey towards clan Lavellan by teaching them both techniques for higher awareness and mind warding while they slept. Despite the interesting exercises, Cullen's thoughts kept wandering off. He grew more distracted the farther they travelled into the forest, trepidation rising with every passing minute they drew closer to the clan's camp. The things Solas had told him about the Dalish kept invading. Especially the importance they placed on tradition made him anxious about how he would be received by Shenlira's father. He was no expert, but a relationship between a human templar – even a former one – and a clan Alaslin sounded anything but traditional. It bordered on scandalous. His insides churned and twisted at the thought. Solas was at least an elf, although not Dalish. But him? If they saw his sword and shield emblazoned with the templar emblem, Shenlira might have to jump in front of their arrows for him. Cullen swallowed the thick knot of unease and found her looking at him from the corner of her eye.

"Stop worrying. I can practically see your thoughts on your face.", she soothed, a tiny note of amusement in her voice. On her other side, Solas turned to consider Cullen sceptically.

"What do you think, _Da'Assan_? Will that armour hold if they decide to use the ' _shem_ ' as target practice?" Shenlira hissed at him for that sardonic comment.

"You're not helping, Wolf Brother.", she retorted scathingly. Then, she glanced up into the thick arcade of leaves which the trees lining their trail created. A smile flitted across her features. "We're close. Not much farther now." At Cullen's question how she knew, she pointed up above, where a tiny, round pendant hung unobtrusively from a branch. It looked like the charm of a hedge-witch, made from thin leather cords tied to an intricate pattern inside a wooden ring, decorated with feathers. Mere minutes had passed when Cullen noticed that the forest around them had gone strangely silent. No bird sang anymore, but he caught a faint rustling in the bushes to their left, almost drowned by the rush of the river. He tried to turn in the saddle, but the horse beneath him danced out of balance, nostrils blowing apprehensively. A trickle of panic went down his spine. Solas' horse whinnied too, and the elf had to rein the nervous animal in. Something was wrong.

"Odd.", Solas commented. Cullen's hand already gripped his sword-hilt while he spoke quietly to Shenlira, who seemed completely oblivious to the signs of unseen danger.

"Lira, are you sure this is the right way? It's too quiet… The horses…", he began, but then noticed the lingering quirk of her lips.

"Oh, quite sure, yes. But you are right. We are not alone anymore. Something stalks us.", there was barely contained cheer in her tone. Cullen could make no sense of it.

"Why are you saying that as if it's a good thing-" He never finished that sentence. From the depths of the undergrowth, a dark grey shadow burst with such speed, it looked no more than a blur to the eye. The two men only kept their mounts from unseating them with exceptional reflexes. The horses reared and startled in terror as the big wolf led them on a merry chase, tail sticking straight up like a signpost of mischievous happiness. He jumped, skipped, turned in circles around them, yipping mockingly. The tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth in a wolfish grin, as though he found frightening them immensely amusing. Shenlira burst out laughing and Cullen barely caught the reins of her alarmed mare when she dismounted in a lightning-quick fashion. They greeted each other in such a spirited way, it left both Cullen and Solas speechless. The wolf lowered to his stretched front legs, backside high up in the air, tail so exuberant with frantic wiggles it seemed it had a life of its own. Shenlira pranced around him and crouched until he lunged at her, then sidestepped out of reach. This went on in a light-hearted dancing scuffle, almost juvenile, brimming with the limitless joy of reunion. Finally, she spread her arms and Cub's jump bore her flat to the ground. It mattered not. She hugged him, face buried into the thick fur at the side of his neck while he whined like a puppy, nosing her all over. After a moment, Shenlira pushed him off and the jaunty creature rolled to his back, throwing her a look of obvious demand.

"You're too old for belly-stroking, childish animal.", she rebuked him. And yet, contrary to her words she didn't seem able to resist the rumbling, pleading noises that came from Cub's throat. So she began to rub the downy chest and belly he exposed to her without qualms. A rueful expression was on her face when she noticed the two men staring at the scene blankly.

"I'm sorry, you two. I suspected that he might pull some goofy prank like this. Meet Cub, the wolf who never grew up." Cullen and Solas dismounted in order to come closer, much to the dismay of their mounts, which both strained against the reins. Cub rose to his feet and regarded them suspiciously. Shenlira stood, dusting herself off before she patted Solas apologetically on the arm. Then she turned and embraced Cullen, brushing a kiss to his cheek. The wolf inclined his head in an attentive gesture, ears flicked straight forward, then began sniffing both of them out thoroughly. At Cullen's perplexed features, Shenlira smiled.

"It's easier for him to understand that you belong to the pack if I show physical contact and ease around you.", she explained, taking the reins from him again. She gave Cub a shooing wave and said, "Run along now. You're scaring the horses." And he did lead the way several dozen feet ahead of them. His tail bobbed from left to right, pointed backwards in a straight alignment to his body.

"It seems he missed you too.", Cullen told her, mounted again on a now very insulted horse. Shenlira flashed him a quick, happy glance.

"One never forgets the little things that make a companion invaluable. That tail of his is as expressive as a human's face. And those noises he makes when I stroke his belly…", she said wistfully.

The road wound with the riverside and went downward into a small valley, but before they could descend into it they came to a pair of towering, ancient-looking trees. Grown like an archway to the grove, the branches above were bound together by colourful ribbons. Both were draped with the same emerald banner, depicting a proudly antlered stag stitched with silver thread. The insignia of clan Lavellan.

"We enter clan grounds now. Please do not speak before me.", Shenlira reminded the two of them softly, although she knew it was needless to. They passed through the natural gateway and had not walked a dozen steps when a voice called from high above.

"Who goes there?", a young male, the lilting elven accent apparent.

" _Andaran Atish'an, Lithlas. Alaslin mel imlis vir'vhenas_.", Shenlira answered fluidly. There was a joint cry of several people at those words, whatever they meant exactly. Cullen could not see them up in the crowns above, they were so skilfully concealed. A second later, jumping from the uncanny hideout in the trees, a tall figure clad in dark green leather landed before them on the trail. Bow and quiver secured on his back, he straightened, bowing. Elaborately patterned tattoos wound along his cheeks and brow. Cullen wondered if he would ever get used to the unfamiliar sight of the Vallaslin.

"Welcome back, Alaslin.", said Lithlas with a slight smile. They grasped hands in a comradely fashion before the sentry stepped back and regarded the two men at her side neutrally. "Who walks with you on the path home?", he then asked, neither scornful nor especially polite.

"My dear friend and companion Solas, a skilled mage. And… ehr… My military advisor and general, Cullen Rutherford.", she introduced, sounding a little embarrassed. Cullen and Solas traded a look behind her back.

"A peculiar one of the People, without Vallaslin, and a templar made general. You sure find interesting company, lethallin.", he noted, amused. "Iveras and Deshanna will be glad to see you." Lithlas made a sound that resembled a bird call. Further down the road, it echoed back from other sentries. A signal to herald their arrival.

The elf guardian walked swiftly by their side as they descended the road into the grove. The abundant river flowed in a wide arc around a beautiful patch of forest where the trees had grown in a natural circle. Amidst the sheltered clearing they formed, close to fresh water and all the currents could offer, two dozen aravels and just as many brightly coloured tents made up the main camp of clan Lavellan. Branches all around were decorated to mark the elves' presence: red and blue bands that peeked through the leaves, or different versions of the charm they had seen on their way. Cullen glimpsed several more sentries hidden in the trees, but Shenlira's completely relaxed stance in the saddle soothed any worries he might have had.

"I do not return under fortunate circumstances, Lithlas. I barely escaped the clutches of a murder plot and the culprit is still at large. The chase has led us to Wycome, and I need to speak to my father urgently…" Lithlas' expression turned grim and unforgiving.

"I suspected that you wouldn't journey this far merely for a visit. Dark news this, Alaslin…", but he was interrupted when Cub ran up to them at the edge of the camp, a group of elven children in pursuit behind him. They caught sight of Shenlira and squeaked in delight. She signalled the others to dismount and their party was escorted the rest of the way by a wolf and a handful of excited little ones who kept asking where she'd been, if she brought new songs and stories, maybe some treats? Even Solas could not suppress his amusement at the scene, a faint smile curving his lips. Grown elves who'd been busy with tanning hides, the weave of fabrics or sorting of herbs stopped their work to see what the commotion was about. Many called greetings to Shenlira or bowed before her respectfully.

Finally, they came to a great, richly embellished tent just as an ageless woman with long, silver hair stepped outside. Her face tattoos were snowy white and the staff in her hand must have once been the branch of a mighty elder tree. Its peculiar, swirling form seemed naturally grown. The only adornment it bore were a dozen motley feathers, shimmering in the midday sunlight like the plumage of some exotic bird.

"Shen! Our Alaslin returns to us!", the woman cried the moment she saw Shenlira, who promptly jumped into her widespread arms.

"Keeper Deshanna! _Mir'elgar sulahn'nehn mas vir'vhenas_.", she answered thickly. At Cullen's questioning glance, Solas whispered, "My spirit sings in joy to be home again." The Keeper embraced her for a moment longer, then pulled back and regarded her with both regret and fondness in her wise blue eyes.

"Long you have been gone, wild child. But stories of the vital path you walk now have reached us from everywhere. I cannot say how proud I am.", Deshanna's voice was not quite even during those meaningful words. Behind her, another came from the depth of the tent. Taller than the Keeper and dark-haired, his striking grey eyes the exact shade as Shenlira's.

"Da!", she leapt at him and her father caught her easily. A curious feeling of joy streaked with sorrow came over Cullen as he watched father and daughter hug each other fiercely. It reminded him how he missed his own parents sometimes. At the same time, he shared his beloved's delight in seeing her father again after a year of absence.

"Shen, ah you will never change, _da'len_. Still as spirited as your Cub over there. An hour ago, he jumps up from his nap and breaks into a run, heeding none of my calls. That can only mean one thing, I thought." As though he knew that he was the topic of discussion, Cub pushed his great silver head between them and Shenlira's father let her go, yet unveiled pride danced in his eyes as he did. She let out a little sniff and swiftly brushed a fleeting tear from the corner of her eye, clearing her throat.

"It's so good to see you, Da. Please, meet my companions… Solas and Cullen. I owe them both my life. Without them, I might not be standing here with you.", her voice overflowed with emotion, making both men shift uncomfortably on the spot, not used to such open praise from her. "Keeper Deshanna, leader of the Lavellan. And my father, Iveras Lavellan, tender of the Halla and hunter to the clan.", she introduced the elves. While the Keeper gave each an acknowledging nod, Iveras turned a thorough, scrutinizing gaze at them that felt like looking at the pointy end of a steel blade. Cullen and Solas both stood their ground – though not without considerable efforts to their courage.

"So, after years where I tell you to settle down to no avail, suddenly you bring home _two_ men? Which one is it, _da'len_? They both make pretty solemn faces, paler than a Halla's coat. I can't decide. Although this human looks a bit like Cub when he's eaten the last pastry from the table while I was gone... Guilt-ridden.", he commented, satisfied by their stricken expressions. Shenlira blushed scarlet and buried her face in one hand.

"Iveras! You're embarrassing the girl.", the keeper rebuked him sharply. Then, in an undertone she added, "There's no question which one it is to me." To Cullen's utter mortification, she glanced at him, blue eyes knowing. The gesture did not escape Iveras' sharp wits.

"Of course, she'd choose outside of tradition. Well, at least he is easy on the eyes. For a human.", he remarked grudgingly while Shenlira fidgeted with the sleeve of her jerkin and avoided all of their gazes. "What's this about saving your life, _da'len_? Did something happen?", her father turned serious again. Shenlira sighed, relieved that the topic had been diverted from the prying questions about her romantic life.

"We better get inside. I have much to tell you." Deshanna and Iveras exchanged a worried look as they stepped into the tent behind her.

* * *

"This place looks deserted.", Leliana pointed out. Her eyes roamed over the walls that surrounded the imposing Circle Tower of Wycome. Both were hewn from light, sandy stone and the tower itself did not reach very high up. Several structures flanked it, making it seem more like an elegant manor of some reclusive lord than a place where magical arts were taught and kept under control. As mage towers often did, this one stood on the outskirts of town, about an hour on horseback from the inner city. The tall oak doors were sealed, but after some effort from Cassandra and one of their veteran soldiers, they managed to pry the gates open.

They entered into a sort of courtyard that had likely once held a beautifully tended garden. Now, the bushes and hedges grew rampantly all around, like the wilderness in a long-abandoned ruin. There was no sign of inhabitants as the small party made its way through the overgrowth, pushing aside branches that reached into the neatly cobbled path up to the tower.

"There should be Templars waiting.", Cassandra's voice was cold with apprehension. Leliana gave a grim nod and cast a glance towards the housing wings that stretched out from the back of the tower, yet all was quiet. The main door stood ajar and bore signs of battering, both by spells and blunt weapons. Leliana pushed it open, simultaneously drawing her dagger.

"Andraste's mercy, what happened here?", Cassandra gasped behind her. They had stepped right into the remnants of a brutal massacre. The whole circular entrance area was littered with bodies, the pungent smell of decaying human flesh and dried blood almost overpowering to the senses. Even though they were hardened veterans used to death and war, the soldiers made disgusted sounds at the sight. One even had to turn aside to retch. For this wasn't the outcome of a fair battle, warrior against warrior. This looked as though some cruel child had ripped up all of its dolls in a fury. The corpses were butchered and mutilated, the dismembered limbs strewn between splintered wood and broken chairs. An impressive oak table lay overthrown, split almost in two. The floor must have been drenched in blood, for the greater part of it was blackened by the dried life-force these poor men had shed here. Leliana and Cassandra walked among the carnage, horrified.

"They were templars. Look at their armour…", Leliana pointed at a bloodied torso where the skyward sword with wings was still visible. "Maker… They were torn apart. It looks like the work of some savage beast."

"Or something much worse.", Cassandra had unsheathed her sword as she examined the bodies, or what was left of them anyway. The Inquisition soldiers took up watchful posts at the doors that led away from the entrance hall, but it seemed as though they were the only living souls left in this dreadful place. They both stumbled upon the disfigured corpse of a red templar, almost at the same time. Where before had been his arms, there were spikes of red lyrium sprouting from his bloated ribcage. The creature had not died easily, bleeding from countless sword slashes.

"Shadow. They fought it valiantly, to the last man.", the seeker said, her tone sombre. Leliana threw a sweeping look around the whole tragedy. They found several more red templar bodies. No survivors, no sign of Light-Foot.

"So these were loyal templars after all? Light-Foot was worried something might be wrong with them. But now it looks as though they were attacked by the red templars and tried to defend the tower. That doesn't add up. At least Light-Foot is not among these corpses…", the spymaster pondered bitterly.

"We should search the rest of the tower.", Cassandra proposed, then she turned to one of the soldiers. "Send a message to the Commander, urgently. No, wait. Go yourself. Varric should be here soon and we can handle ourselves. Cullen will want to see this. Maybe he can identify some of these men, and…", she exhaled heavily, "Their deaths need to be reported to the order… The bodies honoured." The eyes that looked at her from the soldier's visor were filled with great respect.

"Ma'am.", he acknowledged the command and saluted, walking off with brisk steps. Cassandra could not blame him for wanting to be gone from this place. Violent bloodshed had been done here, brother killing brother. No doubt Cullen would be even more furious and appalled by it. As suggested, she and Leliana searched the whole tower thoroughly, from ground floor to the very top. Signs of vandalism and destruction were everywhere. Beautiful lead glass windows had once depicted scenes from the Chant of Light. Now the broken shards littered the check-tiled floors between burnt or splintered furniture, ripped-open pillows, torn-up books. The rampage all across the tower seemed to be older than the attack though, possibly the aftermath of the Chosen's visit after the conclave. He had been determined to cause as much destruction as possible, which became even clearer when the two women reached the phylactery storage in the basement. The doors to the room were made from solid steel and usually had an intricate lock that only reacted when a templar and a mage simultaneously worked the opening spell. Cassandra and Leliana looked at the mayhem with stunned expressions.

The steel doors had been blasted open and hung askew from the hinges, the lock melted beyond recognition. It must have been a spell of tremendous power. Inside, not one of the towering shelves that holding phylacteries of each Wycome Circle mage's blood had been left standing. Broken vials lay everywhere between the overthrown racks. The rebel mages had been determined, one had to give them that. The glass of a phylactery was usually strengthened with magic. Destroying one took considerable effort. Out of nowhere, Leliana let out a frustrated cry and kicked at a mound of shards, hard. Cassandra startled beside her, not accustomed to such unbridled behaviour from her usually composed friend.

"We will never find anything in this mess! No phylactery, no sign of the Weaver's Chosen and no Light-Foot. Damn it all!", she vented her fury in a shout, then turned on her heel and fumed all the way back to the entrance hall, Cassandra right behind her. They almost ran into Varric, who had just entered the tower through the main door.

"Maker's Balls, shit… What happened here?!", he exclaimed as he caught sight of the corpses strewn around the room.

"We don't know, truthfully. Other than that there has been a massacre here, red templars against supposedly loyal ones. There are no survivors, or if there are, they aren't in this tower. We found nothing of value to our quest, and we searched everything.", Cassandra answered him solemnly. Varric looked around once and let out a filthy curse.

"Damn it… Red templars, here? This is bad… Everywhere red lyrium is involved just turns into a fucking shitstorm.", he swore passionately.

"Have you found out anything?", Leliana asked him, her tone hopeful. Varric sighed.

"This town is like a candied apple. Most people are hell-bent on ignoring every issue that might be remotely unpleasant or troubling, proclaiming how peaceful it is here. But every city has its gossipers. I heard all sorts of rumours, and none of them make much sense. A few residents in the poor districts complain that something is wrong with their wells. Those who drink from the water become distracted, confused, babbling incoherently. They think the Dalish might be poisoning the wells. Then there's this rumour about a haunted manor not far from here. Everybody avoids it, and it's said to have been abandoned for a decade. 'It feels wrong', they say, 'That place is evil. Spirits of the dead howl in pain all night and shadows walk the withered halls'. It sounds like superstition to me, but who knows… I'm no expert on ghost stories. We'd have to ask Chuckles."

"Maybe if nothing else turns up until then, we can send for him. We already sent a soldier to get Cullen back here. I don't know what else to do… Nothing about Light-Foot, Varric? The Weaver's Chosen?", Leliana sounded almost desperate.

"Sorry, Nightingale.", the dwarf shook his head regretfully. The issue of contacting the city watch came up, but was dismissed soon. Guards swarming the place might disturb any subtle evidence they might have overlooked, or something only Cullen's vast knowledge of the templar ranks may tell them as soon as he arrived. They stood in silence for a long while, a little aside from the bloodshed, pondering the stalemate they had come to be in. Until Varric spoke seemingly out of context.

"Don't you think that's an odd place for a painting?", he asked the women. They turned and followed his gaze. In the whole room, only one painting could be found, and its placement was indeed unusual. A cheaply done, bleak little landscape hung inside an alcove behind a smashed statue. If the figure had been whole, the picture wouldn't even have been visible. So why was it there? Suspicious and curious, all three of them walked up to it and Leliana reached forth, lifting the crooked frame away. A piece of parchment fell to the floor the moment she'd dislodged the painting. With some difficulty, she coaxed it forth from behind the statue and the three of them bent over it as she unfolded the paper.

 _The hare skirts the hunters with a light-footed step,  
Seeking still the spider who weaved this tangled web. _

Below, there was a complicated drawing of a spiderweb, spun between four branches, each adorned with some peculiar runes. A small black spider sat in the top left corner.

"That doesn't look like anything to me.", Cassandra remarked in a disappointed voice. Varric snorted, but refrained for once from a scathing comment.

"It's a code. Like the ones used by spies to communicate with each other in secret. Nightingale, can you make sense of it?", he sounded optimistic. Leliana's eyes were scanning the message and the runes, while her lips moved silently.

"Which cipher did you use, Light-Foot?", she murmured, not paying the two others any attention, not even acknowledging Varric's expression of disbelief.

"Which? There is more than one?!" The spymaster threw him a swift sideways glance.

"There are about twenty in use among my agents. I just have to…", she trailed off, all her concentration on the note again. The lightning speed of her thoughts almost physically charged up the air around her.

"Andraste's tits, she has them all memorized.", Varric whispered to a blank-faced Cassandra. He knew what the seeker did not: In order to decrypt the message, Leliana filed through countless rune-combinations, matching them to the sheer amount of twenty possible ciphers stored inside her remarkable memory – a splendid mental feat. They let her think undisturbed for several minutes, waiting with baited breaths. Then, Leliana turned the parchment sideways a little and let out a triumphant sound.

"Yes, I think I have it. This rune-combination means 'water' or 'wave', and this here says 'towards the bay of sapphire". They are cardinal directions. The sea is East, and bay of sapphire refers to Antiva, which is north. It's a map. And Light-Foot wants us to go…", she pointed at the small black spider in the far-left corner. "Here. He must have found something and gone to the place marked on this map. He might have been afraid of the templar, if he encrypted it… Or maybe something else frightened him. We need to follow his directions. The fact that he has not returned until now is troubling… It's been almost three weeks.", Leliana said darkly.

"I agree. But we can't all go. Someone has to wait here for Cullen.", Cassandra pointed out. That argument led Leliana and Varric to approve that she should be the one to wait for the Commander at the tower, to which she gave a fatalistic sigh. So she stayed behind at the unpleasant, dreadful place, although she chose to spend the time outside the gates, away from the carnage.

* * *

Varric and Leliana made their way through the busy afternoon city towards the edge of the merchant district. This part of town was much less glamourous than the colourful, well-groomed midtown area where the _Glossy Starling_ stood. Directly adjacent to the poor quarter, the merchants who lived and traded here were mostly either unfortunate or obscure: Fortune-tellers, grubby peddlers, rag-women, dingy little meat-shops that gave off quite an appalling smell. They had no exact location for the point Light-Foot had marked on his map, so they searched the whole area until they came into a muddy, dirty alley with a corroded alchemist's shop-sign above the door. If it ever had glory days, they were by now long past. The cheap green paint on both wall and door had flaked off, its wood splintery and rotten. The windows were all boarded up, blocking the view inside.

"What a ramshackle hut. Who would even live in a decrepit place like this?", Varric snorted under his breath. A little way down the alley, an old hooded woman sat on a rickety chair, puffing out acrid clouds of smoke as she sucked on a pipe. Her beady eyes fixed scornfully on the dwarf from beneath her layers of rags, and she tutted at him in a very old-hag-like manner.

"Watch your tongue, scamp. Many don't have a copper to their name around here. But the alchemist was a good fellow. Even made me that potion for my gout free of charge. Had a daughter too. Pretty little thing, she was, but wrong in the head, I tell you. Too much of those herbal fumes, I say.", the hag let out a raspy chuckle but promptly went into a coughing fit afterwards. Varric and Leliana exchanged a quick glance.

"Sorry, granny.", Varric said, his voice deliberately apologetic. "What happened to him?" The old woman gave a half-hearted shrug.

"Who knows? One morning, store was boarded up and they was gone. Could be he got tired of living in this dump. Wouldn't be the first.", she rasped with another sip on the pipe. Leliana reached into her coin bag and took out two shining silver pieces, which made the old woman's eyes gleam with greed. She accepted the coin and slipped it into the depths of her cloak, her gnarled hands moving quite deftly.

"Grandmother, you sure see many people around here all day. Has someone come by who took an interest in this shop recently?", Leliana asked in a voice as though she was speaking to a venerable dowager. The hag seemed very pleased by the polite words.

"My eyes aren't as good as they used to be, but there was one. Odd lad. Asked if he could take a look at the place, so I tells him, if you want to scavenge what's left, go right ahead. There's nothing but rubbish in there, but he went anyway. Must have left while I took a nap.", she answered, sounds of clinking coins coming from her pocket.

"Thanks bunches, granny. We'll take a look ourselves, if you don't mind.", Varric said, bowing a little.

"Knock yourselves out. Scrape wood-chips from beneath the floor-tiles if you will.", she huffed, disinterested. The door was of course locked, and so Varric pulled forth his fine lockpicking tools while Leliana stood leaned against a wall, watching for any curious passer-by who might notice their break-in.

"It's an old Free Marches saying. Scrape wood-chips from floor-tiles, meaning 'try to get something out of nothing'.", the dwarf explained matter-of-factly when the lock clicked open. They entered into a darkened, narrow hallway lined with faded illustrations of herbs and minerals inside tacky little frames. Dust covered most of the floor and the cheap wooden furniture. At the end of the corridor, to the left of a window obscured by a moth-eaten curtain, a set of brittle-looking stairs went up to the first floor. To the right, a closed door. They went through it and found themselves in what seemed to be the ransacked study of the alchemist. The rack of potions had been overthrown, littering the floor with broken glass containers of all sizes and colourful splatters of what they had once contained. Footprints dotted the whole room, went around the chaotic work-desk and back again, then to the door.

"He was here, I think. Light-Foot. But…", Leliana noted in a confused tone. Then, her eyes fell to the carpet between all the garbage. It would have been almost perfectly concealed. Only a thin streak of blood was visible beneath the fringes of the woven fabric. The whole house creaked and whistled with the wind blowing through the window-cracks. Varric looked to the door alertly. Darkness loomed behind it, and he had the spooky feeling of being watched. It made his hackles rise. Although nothing moved in the shadows, he unbound the crossbow from his back, aiming it towards the hallway. Leliana lifted the carpet away from the floor with some difficulty. It revealed a long splatter of red that ended abruptly at the edge of a trap door. After prying it open, they climbed down a rickety ladder and found themselves in a wide cellar that smelled of mould and decay. Shelves labelled with the names of plants and animal parts lined the walls, but what drew their attention were the bars of a cell door on the far side. Leliana let out a gasp when she glimpsed the curled-up body dressed in dark leather inside the cell.

"Light-Foot! Maker, Varric, open this thing! I think he's still alive.", she urged and he immediately went to work on the lock. Again, the back of his neck prickled with an uneasy feeling, but he had to concentrate too much on the complicated mechanism to heed it. Finally, the door opened and he and Leliana rushed inside to Light-Foot's side. The agent looked like he'd been here for a while, his appearance haggard, skin grey and sickly. His clothes were torn and dirty, but Leliana found no immediate wounds on him when she made a quick examination. Except for an almost healed blow to the head. Beneath her thorough ministrations, Light-Foot stirred and groaned. When his eyes found hers, they went wide with shock.

"Nightingale…! Oh, I messed it all up… It was a trap.", he managed desperately. Several things happened at once then. Varric shot up from his crouch and whirled towards the exit, at the same moment when the cell bars fell shut on them and a lock clicked into place. In the dim semi-darkness behind it stood the old woman they had met on the street, sneering. Varric searched his jacket frantically, but found only empty pockets.

"Looking for these?", the hag said tauntingly, holding up the lock-picking tools he'd left at the entrance to the cell. She threw them out of reach with a casual flick of her hand. There was something noticeably un-old-ladylike in that movement.

"Wretched old hag! Who paid you to do this?!", Leliana demanded, her voice a cutting edge of steel. Then, her face went pale as the realization dawned on her. "Nobody did… you're not an elderly beggar woman at all." Their jailer smiled wider, and as she did, the illusion drained from her features like quicksand, until the white wolf pendant gleamed at them from the shadows and they were looking into the unveiled face of the Weaver's Chosen. Both Leliana and Varric were stunned by disbelief at the sight.

"You… That face…", Leliana gasped, utterly dumbstruck.

"How is it possible?!", this from Varric, golden eyes wide as saucers. He was too dazed to even raise his weapon.

"I'm afraid I cannot indulge your curiosity, little mice caught in my trap. I have a lion to tame, and that will be much more interesting than keeping you company down here. I hear he is quite the tenacious one.", the Chosen let out a cackling laugh, walking away from them, and they were left trapped inside the cell beneath an unremarkable alchemist's shop with seemingly no way out.

* * *

Keeper Deshanna and Iveras listened to Shenlira speak about the events since the conclave well into the afternoon, and the fact that they almost never interrupted her showed how much value they placed on her opinion as Alaslin, how deeply their trust went. When she recounted the whole affair of the Weaver's Chosen and the Architect's nightmare, Cullen watched Deshanna's expression grow worried, then shocked, while her father paled ghostly white and had to grip a table-side for support at one point. Shenlira ended her story with their arrival at Wycome, her voice hoarse from speaking for so long. Iveras regarded Cullen and Solas with respect, now that he knew the full extent of what they had gone through to save his only child. The keeper called for food and drink to be brought while they all sat in silence for a time, letting the long chain of events sink into their minds. Finally, Deshanna spoke.

"I cannot believe that Mariel – that was the name we knew Mar'Alenna by – possessed that dreadful dagger all these years, that such an artefact was right beneath my nose and I did not see it.", she shook her head in disbelief. Solas pulled forth the dagger, wrapped in black velvet, and handed it to her. She examined it gingerly, as though it were some dangerous animal that might lash out at any minute.

"Thank you. Yes… I will have to look it up in the lore-book, but I am quite sure at some point this has been in clan Lavellan's possession. Then, as these things go, someone tried to use its power for themselves and it changed hands, ending up at the Wycome Circle. People just can't leave dangerous magic alone.", she gave a regretful sigh and then looked imploringly at Iveras, whose face seemed chiselled from poignant grief.

"Still, her shadow haunts us… Over thirty years ago, I found her wounded in the woods. I had taken the Halla to the grasslands in the West. She lay there, beneath a weeping willow… Bleeding from a deep wound on her thigh. It was a wonder she was even still alive. So I took her in… Deshanna was still First back then. She helped me tend to Mariel's wound and we somehow snatched her from the brink of death. She wouldn't tell me where she came from or who attacked her, although we both knew that wound had been inflicted by a sword. It didn't matter to me. She was… mysterious, beautiful, with those eyes like emeralds… And I had never been a man to struggle with grand, complicated decisions. So I simply married her. That made her part of clan Lavellan and she was allowed to wear Vallaslin. And a year later… you were born. From the day you first opened your eyes, you were so loved, _da'len_... I still believe you were the reason she never looked back.", Iveras' gaze strayed into the distance, before he closed his eyes for a long moment.

"I don't remember anyone in particular who she could have had contact with. Nobody visited her, anyway. But… You might, Shen.", he then said, which earned him confused looks from everyone, especially Shenlira.

"When you were little, she would take you with her to Wycome every other month. Mariel told me those trips were to refill her supplies and show you a bit of the town revelry. So you could see what humans lived like. I could not leave the Halla unattended, so I let her go alone… Don't you remember?", her father surveyed her, brow furrowed. Shenlira struggled to find a memory of what he described, but none would come. She shook her head, frustrated.

Their conversation was interrupted by someone pulling away the tent's flap. Lithlas peeked in, looking worried and alert.

"Alaslin. We just let a human soldier pass into the valley. He seems in a great hurry and says he has to speak to Commander Cullen immediately." Cullen and Shenlira stepped outside while Solas had a quiet conversation with the Keeper.

"It's Aron. He was supposed to stay with Cassandra and Leliana.", Cullen remarked in an apprehensive tone just as the soldier rode through the camp toward them. He only dismounted when he'd reached the Keeper's tent and it seemed that he had travelled the whole way in full gallop.

"Commander.", Aron saluted swiftly, taking off his helmet and running a hand through his cropped black hair. Several elves viewed his arrival curiously, including Lithlas, who shifted on the spot, his posture tense. "Seeker Pentaghast sends me. There has been a brutal massacre at the Wycome Circle tower. The order fought red templars, but no one survived.", he proceeded to report the situation to an increasingly horrified Cullen. Bitterness bloomed in Shenlira as Aron described the scene of the fight. She watched Cullen's face grow still first, then turn to hardened mask of fury. He threw her a quick glance that spoke volumes.

"I have to see that for myself.", he said as he looked at her stricken features.

"I'll go with you. Maybe-", Shenlira instantaneously decided although Cullen was shaking his head in denial. She was cut short when Solas and Keeper Deshanna exited the tent with her father following behind.

" _Da'Assan_ , Deshanna and I may have a way to recover your memories of Mar'Alenna.", Solas stated, baffling her into silence for a moment.

"You repressed them for many years, until even when you try, you cannot remember them anymore. But that does not mean they are not still inside, hidden from sight. We can help you do a _Somniar'shiral_. I have not guided one for some time, but your friend says he would assist me."

"A dream journey? And it could really help me remember?" Shenlira suddenly looked torn, her eyes wandering between the people gathered around her. Her instincts rebelled at the thought of being separated from Cullen, but she was at a loss to explain what made her so anxious. Yet recovering the memories might bring light to the mystery of the Weaver's Chosen. Cullen sensed her internal struggle and pulled her a little aside from the others.

"I think you should do this dream journey, Lira. If there is a chance that we might find out who the Chosen truly is, you have to take it.", he argued quietly. Her lips pressed into a firm line and the concern in her eyes made his heart twist inside his chest. "The others will be at the tower. I won't be in danger. Oh, don't look at me like that, my love.", his voice turned pleading and he felt miserable at leaving her behind, or maybe it was her distress that lapped over to him.

"I know we agreed it would be like this. But… _vhenan_ , I'm afraid. I can't explain why… It's just this awful feeling… Something is not right.", she whispered desperately, and Cullen ached with the wish to comfort her. By now he was so sick of the continuous danger, the secrets and conspiracies and unanswered questions that left them fumbling in the dark, he would have done anything to end this, for all of their sakes.

"Here. Keep this while I'm gone." He unclasped his cloak and she was momentarily distracted from her anxiety when the bunched-up fur-and-feather lining settled into her hands. It was heavy with his scent, the fragrance of safety and shelter, of stability in a world that constantly tried to pull her out of balance. Shenlira swallowed the knot in her throat and met his eyes, their dark depths filled with the promise that somehow, everything would be alright. Uncaring about who might be watching them, she wrapped one arm around his neck and pulled herself up to kiss him passionately. She threw all the emotions that swirled like a whirlwind around her into that kiss, and felt his infallible steadiness tilt a little as he answered her with the same ardour. He did not want to go. But he had to.

"Be careful, Sajnalin. Your Maker help you if something happens.", she breathed as she let him go. Her hands curled against her chest, holding his cloak while he mounted his horse and rode away from the camp with Aron by his side. The comforting fabric was the only thing that kept her from succumbing to the inexplicable urge to call him back. A sense she had no name for whispered that they might be doing exactly what the Chosen expected them to do.

* * *

Night had already fallen when Cullen arrived at the tower. It loomed like a pale, cautioning finger beneath the dark velvet sky, the sandstone walls overgrown with ivy and brushwood. The two other veterans stood outside the gates while Cassandra paced between them restlessly. It worried him that he did not see Leliana or Varric as he rode up to them. The seeker spoke even before he dismounted.

"Cullen, finally! Leliana and Varric left to follow a lead from the agent, but that was hours ago. As soon as you have seen what happened inside, we need to look for them. I have a bad feeling." He nodded curtly at her words and followed her into the darkened courtyard. She lit a torch to illuminate their way through the rampant gardens and reported to him the vandalised state of the tower and the carnage that awaited inside. The soldiers seemed reluctant to enter and so Cullen moved to the half-open door, but Cassandra laid one hand on his arm.

"Prepare yourself. Even with what we have seen in battle, this is hard to stomach.", she warned him. He nodded again, face grim. The sweetish, disgusting smell of rotting flesh gagged him as soon as he had stepped inside. Cassandra's torch cast a dancing light into the circular room where the brutal remains of the templars were scattered like broken toy soldiers. Rage built inside as he walked among the dead and looked into each face, if they were recognizable still. It made his stomach boil with bile, sickened him as anything rarely had managed to. He passed a man whose legs had been cut cleanly off, dead eyes staring to the ceiling. The urge to scream his outrage was almost overpowering. The room filled with a dim glow. Cassandra had lit a few of the wall sconces and now regarded him, jaw stiff.

"I knew him. He was a Knight-Templar at Kirkwall once. He did not like me much, but seeing him like this…", he fell silent, remembering the templars speaking to Knight-Commander Meredith one evening, when…

There was a noise from outside the door. Metal on metal, a piercing scream, then a horrible tearing sound that haunted the nightmares of every soldier. The sound of living flesh being rent apart. Aron burst through the door and Cullen and Cassandra both rushed towards him. He opened his mouth, but at that moment, gleaming claws ripped through his chest as effortlessly as a knife cuts through butter. They watched in horror as blood splattered from the ghastly wound and the sword slipped out of his hand, his life extinguished in mere seconds. Weapons were drawn even before Aron had fallen to the ground and his murderer had stepped over the lifeless body. The unearthly claws of red lyrium dripped with blood as they rearranged themselves, shrank and folded in on each other until they formed a mocking travesty of a human hand.

Marcus Vilerian looked at it curiously before he turned to them, bloodshot eyes glittering madly inside their sunken sockets, skin grey with the taint he carried in his body. Cullen flinched back in disgust. He recognized bits of the man from Shenlira's nightmare in his posture and the line of his jaw, but almost nothing remained of the ambitious templar who had hunted Mar'Alenna for the better part of a decade. There was an insane desperation in his eyes as he looked Cullen over from head to toe.

"You are quiet, brother. Bereft of the song that holds the world together. You can hear it, can't you?", he spoke in a dead voice that held no emotion, his hand of cursed red lyrium held out towards Cullen. It sang with a terrifying beauty, more elegant than anything he'd ever heard. Deep, alluring – and yet he felt himself wince away from its wrongness.

"Marcus… What have you done?", he asked incredulously and heard Cassandra growl behind him. The former templar's eyes narrowed to flashing crimson slits. His crystal fingers flexed.

"I did what needed to be done. Not much is left now. Everything is blurry, the song is just too loud. When it was most important, I failed. I could not deliver the death blow. I should have killed her, killed them both." Marcus drew his blade with his unmarred right hand and pointed it at Cullen.

"What are you talking about? You did kill Mar'Alenna! You lied to the order and instead went on a vigilante murder spree that almost cost an innocent girl her life!", Cassandra's tone was sharp as steel, yet their opponent did not even flinch.

"Are you the Weaver's Chosen?", Cullen demanded. Marcus let out a short, dismal laugh. The cackle of a madman.

"Me? You are still so blind. You have been given all the necessary clues, but you walk oblivious to the truth, even now. No matter. Detain the seeker!", he commanded and two red templars stormed into the room from behind, charging right at Cassandra, while Marcus faced Cullen. "The lion is mine."

And with no further warning, he lunged. His blade swung out in a high arc and Cullen barely had time to parry it. Marcus should have been a middle-aged templar with weakened reflexes. The corruption by red lyrium not only gave him inhuman strength, but also a deadly speed. The crystalline hand lashed at him and he raised his shield just in time. The claws grinded over the tempered metal with a hideous, shrieking sound that went through flesh and bone. Cullen was pushed back by the sheer force of the blow. He glimpsed Cassandra besieged by two foes, but she stood her ground like a mountain against a storm as their blades battered her. Then Marcus was upon him again, his sword striking low towards his flank, and even though he sidestepped with amazing agility, he felt a burning pain high on his thigh where the blade had cut him after all. Still, Cullen countered another screeching swipe of the lyrium claws and delivered a glancing strike to Marcus's upper arm, noting with grim satisfaction that he had drawn blood.

The deadly dance went on and on, the chinking sounds of metal against metal ringing in the air as both men fought with fierce determination. Until Cullen finally found an opening in his enemy's guard. He stabbed Marcus through the shoulder and the rogue templar let out a roar of pain and rage, dropping his sword. But then, to his utter horror and surprise, Marcus suddenly grabbed the blade and ripped it from his own flesh, uncaring of any injury to himself.

"Fool! Do you think I care about pain anymore?! I long to die! But I am forbidden until I bring you to her!" He was unhinged, blood spluttering from his mouth as he lashed out in madness. Cullen could not react quickly enough. The blow of the crystal fist to his face stunned him. Stars danced in his vision. The abominable song swelled to a deafening volume, making him lose the grip on his shield. He felt the skin on his face split open, his nose scrunch and break, ejecting a gush of blood. The next moment, a violent kick against his legs brought him to his knees. _Lira!_ , his mind cried out, for this was the end, he would die here, never again to set eyes on her wild beauty, her laughter that brightened his world, never again wake up beside her, feel her beating heart beneath his fingers.

"Cullen, no!", Cassandra yelled, bashing one of her attackers over the head with her shield. It was such a brutal blow, fuelled by desperation, that the man's skull cracked and he fell screaming to the floor, but the other one immediately sliced at her again. She had no opening to help her friend, could only watch in helpless dread as the murderer of Shenlira's mother stepped behind Cullen at drew back his unearthly red lyrium hand.

"Cullen, use your power! Lock him down!", she howled frantically. _I can't,_ he thought _. I can't lock him down. The song is too loud. I failed her. I promised her it would be alright. That I would never leave her to face the darkness alone._ He reached for her consciousness, the beacon of her faith that galvanized him whenever he felt like faltering. She was so far away… a lone, distant star in the blackest night. _Forgive me, my love_. His strength waned beneath the onslaught of the red lyrium's mad cacophony. Marcus' hand struck down and Cullen felt a searing bolt of pain at the back of his neck that drowned out everything else, before the world was swallowed in darkness.


	16. XVI The Weaver's Chosen

_It's time to lift some secrets. I really hope you are at least a bit surprised! I spent a lot of time just thinking about this plot, trying to create a good, dramatic mystery that doesn't seem ex machina or too predictable when it is finally solved. In the end, I realized that it must seem quite tragic as you look at it, but it just makes sense, you know? Alright I'll stop the innuendos. Have fun!_

* * *

 **XVI. The Weaver's Chosen**

 _She was a crimson tide, an unsolvable riddle behind those emerald eyes. I felt drawn into the mystery of her being. It drowned me. I loved her with a ferocity that blinded me to her true nature. For when I finally saw the spider that hid beneath that striking, beguiling shell, she had already woven my fate, right down to the last dripping, blood-drenched thread.  
Marcus Vilerian_

* * *

" _Da'Assan,_ are you listening?", Solas inquired, directing her attention back to him. Shenlira flinched and turned, eyes apologetic.

"I'm sorry… Just now, I thought… I heard someone call my name.", she said distractedly. She had felt a faint trickle of thought, a feeble whisper, as though someone had called to her ever so softly. Probably the lingering anxiety that made imagination play cruel tricks on her, she mused, fingers flexing in the collar of Cullen's cloak. Deshanna, Iveras and Solas had retreated with her back into the keeper's tent and prepared everything they needed for the _Somniar'shiral_. This ritual's name literally meant Dream Journey, a spiritual voyage some Dalish undertook to gain insight or wisdom. The keeper and her First were usually the ones to guard a dreamer along the way, using their magic to consciously enter the world of spirits. Great knowledge and arcane aptitude was required by the guides, and therefore Somniar'shiral were not attempted often or in quick succession.

An incense burner stood next to the bed of piled blankets, filling the air with a sweet scent that made Shenlira tired and a little woozy. She was coaxed to lie down and empty her mind until she was close to falling asleep. Cub instantaneously came to curl up at her side. The scent of a clean, wild animal reminded her of all those nights spent together out in the forest, protecting each other. One of her hands settled on his nape in a gesture so practiced, so inbred, it was not even conscious will. The other hand held the cloak like a lifeline as she closed her eyes. She felt Solas' fingers brush over her brow, Deshanna's light touch on her arm as they murmured instructions to her quietly. Doing as they bid her, Shenlira held herself suspended at the edge of awareness and felt the soft tickles of their minds against hers, as though they were feeling their way along a solid wall. Looking for a crack, an opening to slip through. It went against all instinct to let them in and she was suddenly invaded by the memory of the demon's intrusion. Unease lapped up inside her, a meltwater river bursting its banks. The Architect had ripped down her barriers and rampaged around the deepest parts of her being, violating the most private sanctuary of her spirit, like a child in a destructive tantrum.

"No, sister of my heart.", came Solas' calming voice from far away. "We are not seeking to steal your secrets, not coming to tear you open like a cheap book and put a torch to what you hold dearest. We would never look upon things you do not entrust to us first. Peaceful… quiet now…", he soothed her. It was hard. The only one she had ever allowed to do this was Cullen. _But you trust them_ , she implored herself. Now, with considerable effort, she opened that tiny door to Wolf Brother and Deshanna. Together they sank through silent skies. Shooting stars soared by, scarlet and pine-green and marigold yellow, until her bare feet touched soft moss. High silver grass stroked along her legs and hands, the satin caress of a loved one as it heaved in a soundless wind. The fleeting brush of a wing on her cheek made her turn in surprise. On her shoulder sat a graceful barn owl, preening its brown and white plumage in a dignified manner.

 _A barn owl, Shen? This is the animal you see me as?_ , Deshanna spoke, and the bird's head suddenly tilted a square angle to the right, inquisitive black eyes surveying her from the perfect snowy circle of a face.

"Well, you're wise and knowing… But also a little bit eerie sometimes.", Shenlira reached up and stroked her forefinger along the pristine feathers of one folded wing. The owl-Deshanna let out a hoot that sounded like a rebuke. A wet nose touched Shenlira's other hand and she startled when the head of a big black wolf pushed beneath her palm. One intelligent eye, occupied by an ageless cunning, surveyed her chidingly.

 _And I am a black wolf… Of course_., a bit of tired resignation rode with that thought and she let her palm rest gently on his broad skull.

"Don't you like the wolf? You should have told me if you did not like your _Las'Amelin_ …", Shenlira said worriedly, but the wolf-Solas gave a little jerk of negation.

 _I like the wolf. Yet he is not often a symbol of goodness. I wish more Dalish would view him like you do, instead of associating him with a god of betrayal and deceit._ , this with a pointed glance at Deshanna, who made a sound close to an exasperated sigh.

 _This is not the time for a debate about religious symbolism_., she argued and Solas nodded to that. They looked around then. The night field of moon-grass went as far as the eye could see. Doors, dozens behind dozen others, flanked a wide pathway in a row that disappeared towards a distant horizon. They simply stood on their own, without any walls for support, sustained by nothing more than imagination. Solas had once explained that every dream, every spiritual landscape was created by the mind conjuring its own representation of reality. True understanding of these often symbolic, outwardly incoherent images only came through self-reflection. And it had to be honest. Feeling just a little glum, Shenlira walked between the doors, noting that they all differed in subtle ways, for example the colour of their wood or the metal their doorknobs were made from.

"They have names on them. Look.", she said, pointing at a plaque. The wolf and the owl who were her companions in this strange dream leaned forward. Encircled by a delicate wreath of flowers was written, with a flourish: _Josephine_. Shenlira turned the ornamented gold handle and stepped into a beautifully adorned room that reminded her of the corridors in the Winter Palace. The walls were covered by luxurious burgundy silk, hung with countless paintings in elegantly gilded frames. Solas regarded them with interest.

 _Memories relating to a single person. See, this is when you first met her._ He rose to his hind legs, which made him taller than her by several inches, and his paw rested on a particular picture of Shenlira and Josehine in her study at Haven, shaking hands. _Oh… You thought she was too bright. That dress shimmered like a shiny mirror._ He sounded amused.

"It's interesting how curious you become inside dreams, while the real world usually seems to bore you to no end.", Shenlira commented a bit sarcastically as they exited Josephine's room. They wandered along the path of doors and Solas slowed when he glimpsed his own name. The ebony wood was inlaid with delicate carvings, scenes of him reaching out to spirits in the Fade.

 _I would like to see my room… See myself through your eyes. Ah, there is never enough time._ A peculiarregret rang in his thoughts and the wolf's tail flicked once, morosely.

"There will be. We could come here again, maybe with Sajnalin…", her words trailed away, but as she had spoken his name, one of the doors along the way opened on its own.

 _Sajnalin, like… the mountain lion? A Las'amelin, Shen?_ Deshanna's words brimmed with unveiled surprise, as though she had just watched a hare chase a fox around in circles. _Maybe you did change, after all…_ There was a gentle current of relief threaded into her thought. It baffled Shenlira.

They stepped to the open door and glimpsed a vast room, lit by soft firelight. An enticing fragrance hung in the air, something inexplicable that was both calming and invigorating. At the far side, a great painting took up a good portion of the wall. It showed a snowy field between sentinel mountainsides, with two riders on horseback in full gallop under a late afternoon sun. Shenlira pulled the door close again, for both Deshanna and Solas were peering into the room avidly.

"Why did it open on its own?", she murmured, embarrassed. That room was private, even more than the others.

 _Because you were thinking about him. You are worried_ , Solas pointed out. Of course she was worried. She just could not shake this feeling of trepidation. It hung around her like a heavy winter blanket still permeated by chill. They continued their journey down the road of memory doors for some time before they noticed the surroundings change. The moon-grass made way for ancient, gnarled trees, branches sticking out in creepy shapes beneath the starlit sky. Under the shadow of one trunk stood a small, sketchy-looking door that seemed as though it had not been used for decades. The plaque had been cut through the middle, yet the word was still distinguishable on it: _Mother_.

 _So this is Mariel's door_. Deshanna regarded it with a piercing stare. Wolf-Solas on the other hand, sniffed the air suspiciously and wandered off, circling the tree.

 _Da'Assan, come here. You should see this._ Shenlira held out her arm and owl-Deshanna landed on it as they rounded the trunk and found Solas, his paw extended toward something on the ground. Settled into a cradle of roots, a tiny trapdoor. There was a plaque on its spider-webbed wood, but the writing had almost completely faded. All three of them leaned forward and Shenlira wiped the dust and leaf-remains off. She felt a strange streak of pity at the sight of this tiny thing. Compared to the grand doors at the beginning of the road, this seemed… furtive, as though hidden away in shame.

"Ori – an – na.", Shenlira read the worn letters slowly, then she sat back on her haunches, looking puzzled. "I don't know anyone by the name of Orianna." Automatically, she reached for the ring on the side of the door and pulled, but it would not budge, much to her frustration. "It's locked."

 _Yes. But by something more than your consciousness repressing those memories. Can you sense it, Keeper Deshanna?_ Solas put his paw directly onto the wood surface and the barn owl landed beside it, black eyes vigilant.

 _Magically sealed? Hmmm… Elegant, but… her heart was not in it. Let's see._ They both did something. Like pulling a heavy object from the sludge at the bottom of a lake. Suddenly, an intricate pattern of runes appeared on the trap door.

 _This was Mar'Alenna's work, Shenlira. She sealed these memories, but why she would do such a thing is beyond me. And it seems she did not take particular care. If you had pursued those mysteries of your past more vehemently, you might have been able to break this spell on your own. Then again… Maybe that was what she wanted you to do._ Those words were mingled thoughts both from Solas and Deshanna, before the owl reached out one clawed leg and scratched forcefully over the wooden surface. The runes were cut apart in an instant. Shenlira sensed the door give way, opening on its own, as though it had been waiting for this moment since time immemorial. An immense wind swooped down and pulled all three of them into the tiny, shadowed rectangle. They cried, hooted, yelped in surprise, tumbling through cobwebs and dust and darkness, into a memory long forgotten.

* * *

Cullen awoke to agony. Pain radiated from his neck into the very tips of his fingers and a nauseating dizziness overcame him as his head bobbed like a tiny boat on treacherous waves. He was being dragged along in the steel grip of two men, hands tightly bound behind his back. They had relieved him of his armour and sword while he'd been unconscious. Cassandra! Fighting the two red templars, alone – _Maker, let her be alright._ He hoped desperately that the seeker had somehow managed to defeat them… The stinging pain in his leg flared, distracting him. Someone had bound a strip of cloth tightly around the cut, but it throbbed with every rush of his pulse. His whole face felt sore and beaten, the coppery taste of blood a blatant reminder that Marcus had punched him brutally, breaking his nose. Cullen pushed the many pains to the back of his mind as he'd been trained to do, gathering strength while he cast a careful glance around. _Where am I?_ Marcus walked a little ahead in the darkened corridor that was merely lit by a few lone candles along the walls. The place looked like some decrepit cellar complex beneath a greater residence. Cullen wondered if they were still in Wycome at all. How long had he been insensible? An hour, a day? He made a feeble attempt to free himself, but one of his captors gave a kick right to his injured leg. The pang made him groan, vision flickering. Marcus turned curiously.

"Awake again so soon? Quite the dogged determination in you, brother. Too bad you let a scarlet-haired witch spin her lies around you. I made that same mistake." Signalling the men to halt, Marcus stepped forward until he was eye to eye with Cullen. The rogue templar had roughly bandaged his shoulder wound. Yet the sickly pallor of his face and the dark red stains saturating the white linen marked a failing strength. "You don't remember, do you? I came to Kirkwall years ago. I asked Meredith to take me in. After I killed Mar'Alenna… I had no purpose. They did not dare to expel me, but they cut my lyrium doses, shoved me off, urged me to retire. Meredith should have understood me, we were both of one mind. We both wanted to rid the world of all evil, pull it out by the root. But she sent me away. 'How the proud have fallen!', she'd said… I ended up begging for coin in the streets, when…", he left those words unfinished, head suddenly swivelling towards a door at the far end of the corridor.

"Why are you doing this, Marcus?", Cullen growled, giving the man a ruthless stare.

"Why? Because when I shook with the cramps and went mad from the nightmares, I was offered a deal. Die as a miserable coward in some dirty back alley, or become stronger for the cause of revenge and die as I was always meant to. A proud warrior.", Marcus answered, a mad glint in his eye.

"Whoever made you that deal was lying. Red lyrium will eat you alive, burn you out from the inside until…", but the other man cut him short.

"I know that!", he yelled and backhanded Cullen across the face with a force that nearly threw him off balance. It was as though he'd been lashed by a whip, but he bit back the sound of pain. He wouldn't give Marcus that satisfaction. "I know it was all a lie. But it gave me purpose."

"Did it?", Cullen wondered darkly, looking at the man who had hunted Mar'Alenna with an obsession, and suddenly he realized… Why had none of them thought of it before? _Truly, we have been so blind…_ "When you killed her, was it your purpose that you lost? Or the reason for your existence?" Something flickered in the distorted features once too proud to accept defeat, too proud to suffer insult and betrayal from the woman he'd thought he could trust. It made perfect sense now that he had been fuelled by the desire for revenge – he'd loved her. A love so turbulent and forbidden, so volatile that it bordered on hatred, grew indistinguishable from it, drove him mad. He never moved past it.

"Shut your mouth.", Marcus hissed, before he turned towards the door, and Cullen was dragged along once more. He was led into a room of vast proportions, onto a sort of balcony flanked by two arcing staircases. What came into view below made him recoil in dread: Crystal formations of red lyrium undulated like unearthly vines along the walls, huddled around columns and grew rampantly upwards to the ceiling. The bloodied, barbed feelers of some gargantuan monster. The grips of his jailers were iron bands around his arms. Still, he strained against them. Marcus' claw had been a feeble whisper compared to what this room did to his senses. Cullen could almost feel his chest vibrate with the hum, his skin crawl from the sizzling energy of the red lyrium. He would not last long in a place like this, where the song seemed so intense it rattled his bones, drove into his skull like a spike. They brought him right to the middle of the cavern and he was thrown onto a metal chair of some sort. It seemed to serve as an instrument of interrogation, for Marcus secured his hands with a steel hook at the back. Several phials, orbs and objects whose sinister purpose one could only guess at littered the stained, darkened surface of a desk to the right. As he looked around in the eerie crimson light, he watched Marcus walk to a painting hung beneath the balcony where they had entered. It was an abstract thing with strange patterns that repulsed the eye, somehow alien to human nature, as though it had been drawn by a person whose thoughts did not follow any understandable paths, a lunatic. Could this be what Shenlira had seen in her dream? Cullen could commiserate that she had described it as frightening – looking at the thing made him nauseated, although he could not say why. _It's just... wrong_ , instinct whispered. Yet Marcus paid him no attention anymore, instead he paced the length of the frame and even lifted his hands to touch the picture gently, like a gardener stroking the petals of his favourite flower.

"Don't mind him." Chilling trickles of ice crept down his spine at that sound. The voice was so similar to Shenlira's, and yet unalike in almost every subtle nuance, darker, unnerving. He who knew her down to her very bones recognized the difference.

A hooded figure stepped into view, so close that Cullen could see the ivory wolf carving gleam on its silver chain, see the elegant, flowing movements that marked her as unmistakably female. The Weaver's Chosen leaned in as she pulled off her hood. Her lips quirked with amusement when Cullen flinched back in shock. She was human – no pointed ears, the contours less angular than an elf's. But her features – Mar'Alenna through and through. Dark fiery hair, glinting green eyes like emeralds. Cullen saw Marcus in the resolute line of her jaw, in her noble brow – and Shenlira in the high cheekbones, the full arc of her lips, the petite heart-shaped face. _Unbelievable, it can't be – but it's right here in front of my eyes –_

"Sisters…", he breathed as the Weaver's Chosen pulled a chair close to his and sat down fluidly. One arm resting on the table and legs crossed, it seemed as if she was having a relaxed heart-to-heart with a good friend.

"Half. Half-sisters. I was firstborn, and yet… I was pushed aside, like some ugly secret. Do you think I am ugly, Lion of the South?", as she spoke those words, she leaned towards Cullen so closely, he could see the whimsical sprinkle of freckles across her dainty nose. She was beautiful, hauntingly so. Different from Shenlira, whose charm lay in her vibrant, wild innocence that could not be tainted by hatred or scorn. This woman reminded him of a masterfully crafted blade that would attract admirers, stun and dazzle everything around her. Until one realized that behind all the beauty, its sole purpose was still to cut, to harm, to kill. Cullen leaned away from her, but the scent of some exotic flower invaded his nose even so. Lingered at the back of his throat persistently. He refused to answer. His defiance merely made the Weaver's Chosen smile an angelic smile. And yet, something lurked behind the mysterious green depths of her eyes. As though a much cleverer, much slyer being was ever-watchfully observing the waking world through them.

"I didn't think so. You're stung, I can see that. What the common folk named you makes sense, though. We would make quite a striking pair, if you weren't so messed up. Why were you so rough with him, father? You broke his handsome face.", she snapped at Marcus, who did not seem to care either way. He barely cast her a glance, although Cullen thought he caught a flicker of deepest sorrow in his bloodshot eyes.

"Mother named me Orianna. The rising sun. My sister Shenlira – the tiny star. I should have been the sun, was meant to outshine her. Ah, wait – don't say it. 'Why are you doing this?'.", Orianna imitated in a mock scandalized tone. Then she stood and fetched a crystal bowl from the desk, together with a small silver lancet. A casual flick of her hand and the table hovered closer as she stepped behind Cullen. He reared, alarmed that his enemy disappeared from sight. The next moment a sharp cut to his arm made him hiss. The chair did not budge, thoroughly screwed to the ground, and he had been tightly chained to it. No way out.

"By all means, struggle and make it hurt all the more.", she drawled with disinterest and came into view again, the crystal bowl filled with dark red blood. She set it onto the table as if it were the most natural thing in the world and not repulsive at all. Cullen caught sight of two other hooded figures in the room, standing motionless beneath the wreath of crystals, staves at the ready. Their faintly glowing eyes watched him dispassionately. Rebel mages most likely. Then, Orianna took a small wooden box from her girdle-bag and put it right beside the bowl, taking her seat again in front of Cullen. He glared at her with a disdain that would have made most people uncomfortable. But not the Weaver's Chosen.

"Ah, that intense gaze… You think I am your enemy, but when all is said and done, you shall bow to my will just like father and all the other templars did. Too bad some were not that cooperative when they realized what was to become of them. But they were silenced. You, sadly, do not have the luxury of that choice." Orianna gave a casual shrug, a gesture so lacking human compassion that Cullen felt a surge of irrational fury. He'd always recoiled from the thought of violence against a woman, but this creature made him want to forget those reservations.

"I would rather be torn limb from limb like those poor souls in the Circle tower than bow to you. You were the one who drove a blade into your own sister's back! You gave your own flesh and blood over to despair and torment!", he ground out and felt a grim sort of satisfaction when a flash of rage crossed Orianna's features.

"You do not comprehend how exquisitely I had it all planned. Yes, I wielded the blade. I had prepared it for weeks, sent ambushes to see exactly how she fights, searched and searched for the demon who could raise such an intricate nightmare. Can't you see – Cullen, is it? The symmetry of it! She would have broken under the shame of being Mar'Alenna's daughter despite all her influence, all her fame! And I would have been her executioner, the one who had to live with that same shame for my whole life, forever in her shadow.", she let out a humourless laugh that made his skin crawl. It sounded like two voices mingling together. Then, she turned her gaze on him and her eyelids narrowed to glittering green slits. "But you. You destroyed my perfect design when you saved her. It is not enough that my dear sister gets a family and our mother's affection, renown and respect and her name spoken in awed whispers, no. She gets loyal followers, and love and devotion and someone like you too?" Cullen withdrew at the insane jealousy that burned in Orianna's eyes as a raging flame burned out of control. For the fraction of a second, she cocked her head as though listening to something and he swore that he heard a whisper in between the lyrium's hungry hum. But a moment later, her face had composed itself back into a beautiful mask, like a porcelain doll, pristine and lifeless. She smiled. It did not reach her eyes. They stayed cold.

"No matter. You provide me with a second chance, although I will spare you the details. Yet you should appreciate the elegance of what I do.", she leaned back and pulled a battered glass phial from the folds her rich, velvet robe. The dark liquid undulating inside glowed ever so faintly. A mage's phylactery. "You see, I was not a year old when my mother shunted me off to some third-rate alchemist who raised me while she lived her happy new life. But I always knew that I was special… And so did her former… hmm… let's call it coven. After she died, I was taught some very interesting arts on top of what I learned from the old alchemist. During the nights, I would practice spells and seethe with the wish to someday even the score for the wretched life my sister's arrival had condemned me to.", she paused shortly and turned the phylactery, watching the blood swirl with a chilling fascination.

"One of these nights… When that wish was so strong that I felt it in each beat of my heart, boiling over… A friend came to me in the darkness. He understood me without words… We could get our revenge together. He showed me a dream of how beautiful it would be. I was never alone again." Orianna looked at Cullen, but his gaze was drawn to her shadow on the ground below. He felt his insides twist as it flickered uncontrollably between a human shape and… something else. The regard of that presence made him more uneasy than the mad woman who sat across from him, more even than the red lyrium's constant siren's song.

"You are insane. You don't know what you have invited in by accepting such a bargain.", Cullen managed through clenched teeth. Orianna sneered at him sardonically.

"I did not bring you here to preach your templar sermons to me. I have benefitted greatly from my bargain. For example, I sided with Corypheus and received the means to design some very useful spells for him. Did you know that technically, phylacteries are created by blood magic?", she explained matter-of-factly and held out the vial she'd been playing with. "This is my mother's. It glows still, for I am close by, blood of her blood. But I can also use it to track my sister quite efficiently. Very practical. Now this… Is my own invention.", she elaborated further, an almost childish pride in her voice as she showed him a second phial. This one looked much newer and glowed a bright scarlet. A very faint whisper emanated from it, like a far-away melody of boundless woe. Orianna seemed immensely satisfied by the look of horror on Cullen's face.

"Well… It wouldn't even have been necessary for him.", she noted and gave a small jerk of her head towards Marcus. "He was already broken when I tracked him down. My father has always been weak. Too weak to kill my mother when he hunted her through the woods. Too weak to kill my sister when he had the chance. Guilt has driven him mad. There wasn't much left of him even before I bound him to my will. Useless…" The words held no sign of remorse and Marcus shuddered when she let the phylactery float above her palm, flexing her fingers. She gifted Cullen with another beatific smile. It made his gut churn with bile.

"But you are not like that, are you? Yes… I can see you quite clearly…", she whispered as she leaned in until her brilliant green eyes were mere inches from his. Her hand lifted to the cut on his cheek where Marcus' fist had sliced the skin. The touch burned with more than just simple pain. It seared through him like a whip of fire and he felt something push against the barriers of his consciousness so insistently, everywhere at once. A black, choking, drowning flood, slipping into every tiniest crack to breach the fortress of his mind.

 _Willpower so strong… Indomitable, you think you are. Armour that protects, reality that is shaped… But what are you fighting for, truly?_

All of his senses were suddenly awash with a glorious hymn, an indescribable anthem of deliverance that filled his whole being. Every joy, every pleasure he'd experienced in his life paled at that promise of perfection, of attuning to the great beating heart that held the world together. _Unravel and become a part of me_ , it chanted. There was no flaw in it, no human error, neither sorrow nor happiness. Only oblivion. It beckoned with an allure like nothing else ever had, not the peace of the Maker's light, not the vows he had made to protect the weak, not the touch of his beloved on his bare skin. _Come to me._ He splintered and scattered, memories flitting away from him, tumbling leaves in an autumn storm. He reached for the immaculate greatness – and yet, something… something held him back – what was it? A tiny thread, an imperfect, awkward little thing, so fragile, like a bird's fluttering wings…

 _Why do you resist… Sajnalin?_ That name. That name and all it signified was his true purpose. This… entity that held him captive had no right to use that name. Calling it was an insult to the one who had given it to him. She who had sealed their bond and tethered him, poured out strength and solace from the depths of her being. And never asked for anything in return. _Who will protect this lion's heart that is the centre of my world?_ He turned away from the deafening song and reached for the magic of that name, calling it to life.

"Lira!", he cried out just as Orianna's spell shattered and she flinched back, cursing. The smug look had disappeared from her face. She glared now, teeth bared in an ugly grimace, a striking beauty no more. Cullen held her stare fearlessly. "You speak that name with an insolence that shows how little you understand about the bond it seals. You have deluded yourself into thinking your whole life was somehow her fault. Haven't enough innocent people died for the sake of this blind swath of destruction, Orianna? Shenlira never even knew you existed!" Orianna's hand whipped forth and closed around his throat with a strength that didn't seem possible for her size. It sealed his windpipe shut while she spoke.

"That is where you are wrong, deceived just like everyone else by my dear sister. We knew each other, for mother brought her on her visits to Wycome when we were still children. She got her hooks in you so deep… I will burn her out of you like cauterizing a festering wound." Those words she said decisively, but her fingers slackened just a bit when she glimpsed the look of utter determination in his deep, dark eyes.

"No. Never. Not in a hundred lifetimes will you succeed in turning me against the woman I love.", his voice was quiet, measured. Unbending. Orianna let go of him and walked around the table, opening the small wooden box she'd settled there at the beginning of their conversation. She picked up a metal cylinder, a sort he himself had held countless times. The contents shimmered bright crimson through the tiny glass windows. A mad kind of thrill danced in her emerald eyes when she looked at him.

"Wrong again. Everything can be broken, even your so-famous self-control. Let's rise to the challenge, shall we?"

* * *

It was a beautiful summer day. Her favourite kind of day, neither too sultry nor chilly, with a dazzling sun high in a halo of fluffy clouds across an azure sky. She was six or seven at best and technically too big to be carried by Mother, yet sometimes when the mood hit her she'd allow it still. If only for a few short moments to enjoy the snickers of the girl as her childish limbs dangled in the air above the shiny cobblestones. The trips to the city were always fun, and although Mother insisted they went hooded every single time, she loved to pick bright ribbons from the many merchant stalls and eat candied apples together in the coolness of a shadowed alley. She did not much look forward to the place they visited afterwards. It did not bother her that the part of the city where they went was dirty and all the people looked like they dressed in potato bags – those things were of no interest to a little girl. Rather the house itself frightened her, for reasons she could not quite put her finger on. It stood in a narrow little alley that smelled bad, and was just the same on the inside. Gloomy. For one who spent every day in the remote wilderness unconquered by human civilization, that somehow did not sit right. But there was one thing she liked about the house. The colourful ribbons in her grasp rustled in the wind as though they agreed with her. She was settled her on her feet again and looked up at the sign above the door, a rusty mortar and pestle. Mother took her by the hand and she went bravely, never having been a coward. An odd, bald man greeted them in the dingy hallway. The scent of strong herbs and dust lingered around him like a cloud. It tickled her nose.

"Run along while I talk to Noel.", mother told her and she skipped off, up the rickety staircase and to a tiny room that was little more than a broom closet. A girl sat on the ground there, playing with two stuffed linen dolls. Their dresses were torn and had been patched many times.

"I brought new ribbons for the dolls!", the visitor told the other girl triumphantly. The memory blurred then, its details lost in the hazy thoughts of childhood. The next she knew was a sharp, violent pain as her unruly hair was pulled without mercy. She started crying immediately.

"I want the other ribbon too! You always have so many of them!", the other girl screeched in possessive envy. The same mane of dark red hair stuck out in all directions from her head, but her clothes were just as frayed as those of her dolls. Still, her little heart-shaped face was flawless, big green eyes the exact colour like her mother's. Who now came running up the stairs to separate the two girls.

"Orianna, stop that, don't pull your sister's hair! I bring you a dozen new toys every time, you cannot take Shenlira's too. That is not fair, little one.", Mar'Alenna rebuked her. Orianna crossed her arms and pouted, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I don't want any more ribbons anyway! I want to go home with you! Why can Shenlira go, but I never can?", she wailed angrily. Their mother's face twisted in agony for a moment before she composed herself.

"Oh, Orianna… I told you so many times, only elves can live with the clan, but I promise, in a few years we will find you a little hut close to the city edge and-", but the girl cut her off, screaming now.

"You always say that but you're a liar! Shenlira gets everything and I have to be in this smelly place with that old geezer! You love her much more than me! I hate you!", this last was directed at her sister. Orianna glared at her with a hatred beyond her years and Shenlira felt a gulf of grief tear her young heart open wide. She did not understand the strange circumstances, nor why Orianna could not simply live with them, but for the first time in her short life she experienced true sorrow – she had honestly thought Orianna liked her as much as she did. Now she had to wonder if that had ever been true at all.

* * *

The adult Shenlira awoke with a start in the real world, eyes wide and heart thundering like a drum. What she had seen was almost too fantastic, too immense to believe.

"Sister! I have a sister!", she cried in shock. Deshanna and Solas reached to calm her, but it took several moments until she managed to get her frantic breathing under control. Iveras was by her side in an instant.

"What? How can that be? What did you see?", he questioned, and Shenlira recounted the events from the memory. Her father went pale as a ghost at the revelation.

"She is human. I remember it now… Mother took me with her when she visited Orianna. She had another daughter before me… But who…?", she trailed off as the realization dawned on her. "Marcus Vilerian. He has to be the father. It would explain why he opened the phylactery room for her so she could see the dagger. He trusted her. They were lovers. And her betrayal… That's the reason he was so enraged, so beside himself that he hunted her with such fervour…" Her father's face flooded with misery at those words, for it was another reminder of how little they all had known about the true Mar'Alenna. Another secret she had kept. Deshanna heaved a sigh laden with regret.

"Why didn't she plead to the Keeper or me, we might have taken the child in… Why did she seal those memories instead, making sure the poor child is forgotten, like some pitiful toy in a dusty cupboard…", the keeper shook her head, her eyes filled with sadness.

"I do not think Mother ever fully trusted anyone. She kept her secrets well hidden, never showing her true colours, or staking everything on one card. Maybe she was afraid that the truth would come out… Have I ever known her at all? Blood of her blood…", she stopped speaking all of sudden.

… _Your insolence continues to grow, and this from the blood of Her blood. Despicable…._

Her heart turned over inside her chest. Who else? Who else could have known that they were both blood of Mar'Alenna?

 _Has nothing, not even the dagger I left behind, stirred your memories?_

"Give me the dagger, please.", Shenlira said in a dead voice. Solas and Deshanna both looked at her blankly.

"We took the thing completely apart magically, _Da'Assan!_ You can't possibly think we missed something –", Solas sounded almost insulted while the keeper handed her the dagger.

"No, I believe you did everything right.", Shenlira affirmed quietly, unwrapping the velvet. "Everything except touching it with bare skin." She picked it up and reached for the sharp tip, pricking one finger until a drop of blood formed. When she spread it along the blade, the dagger started glowing faintly. Letters appeared in the air above as though written by a fiery quill.

 _Blood of her blood, yet long have you forgotten there was another  
No bright ribbons can ever make right how you cast me aside  
So I shall take your every joy, your very heart  
For I am the Weaver's Chosen. _

"It's her. The Weaver's Chosen is my sister Orianna." Her voice quivered, hands shaking so badly that the dagger slipped from her fingers. She suddenly felt as though being lifted from her body, existing apart from it. Numb, paralyzed by the knowledge she had discovered. Her mind wanted to shy away from it, and at the same time it pushed the barenaked truth upon her, like having an anvil dropped on one's ribcage. Cub whined, pressing against her side as he laid his head onto her thigh. Her father's hand settled on Shenlira's shoulder and squeezed it gently. Solas and Deshanna looked at her, their expressions full of sympathy.

They knew and understood the tragedy of the situation: Orianna had grown up hating her, because she'd thought her sister had simply cast her aside, forgotten and insignificant. The hatred and jealousy had gone so deep, festered for so long, that she'd plotted to murder her sibling. And the worst of it was that Shenlira couldn't even blame her mother's memory seal. Deshanna had been right – she had repressed all memories of the childhood when Mar'Alenna had still been alive. If she'd pursued them, confronted the question who her mother had truly been, she might have remembered Orianna. But she had not. Out of pure spite, she'd turned away from its cruel, conflicting nature, keeping only a few select mementos and locking the majority away in the farthest corner of her mind. It was necessary to keep her heart from hurting, all the time.

Shenlira took a fractured breath. The longing for Cullen's closeness, for the comfort he provided by simply being, peaked with a strength that made her shudder. Her consciousness stretched for his like a vine reaching for the column that should have been there to support it. But she could not grasp him. _So far away…_ _I am neither a templar nor a mage, just a sapling in the Fade._ Still, something answered her. Not Cullen's earthbound, warm steadiness that had always felt like a crystal shard of sunlight to her. This was different. A calm lake that lapped against misty shores. It seemed incredibly lonely for a moment, as though countless lifetimes lay buried at the bottom of its silent depths, stories of sadness that only the water would remember now. But then it rippled with a quiet sort of joy, a measured, careful tendril that gave comfort nevertheless. Like the affectionate brush of a brother's hand over her hair.

" _Da'Assan_ … It is not your fault." As she heard those words, she was not entirely sure if they had really been said aloud, but Solas held her gaze calmly until Shenlira gave a tiny nod. Iveras embraced her in a way he'd rarely ever done since she'd been a child. The gesture soothed the desperate flailing sensation in her stomach.

"I want to go to the place where she grew up. The alchemist Noel's shop. I know it's a thin hope, but maybe we can find something… Maybe she can still be reasoned with.", Shenlira said, her voice steady again. The three elves gathered in the brightly coloured tent exchanged worried glances. Deshanna spoke up cautiously.

"I'm not sure if that's a good idea, Shen. She might be expecting you to do exactly that. It could very easily be a trap.", the keeper reasoned.

"I know.", she sighed, before adding in a more resolute tone, "But I want to go anyway. The tower isn't that far from there, if anything happens. Cullen and the others will be there. And I'll have Wolf Brother with me." Solas nodded his assent sternly. Her father pulled her close once more and Shenlira felt the many emotions he could not voice in that tight hug. He'd never been a man of many words, always more of an inwardly focused soul. She suspected she'd inherited a great deal of that from him.

"Be careful, my only child. If Orianna went through such measures to hurt you… I fear what else she might be capable of.", her father warned, his expression grave.

Not an hour later, Solas and Shenlira had left the gateway of the two ancient oaks behind and were on their way toward Wycome. Two full moons were at their zenith in the sky, illuminating the path for the horses as they flew in a swift gallop across the grass plains of the riverland. Yet at the sight of the red orb beside the greater silver one, Shenlira was assaulted by a dreadful apprehension _. You consort with weakling templars…_ Orianna had known… She had known about her relationship to Cullen. What if _… I shall take your every joy, your very heart_. What if it wasn't her who was in danger from Orianna right now? _No_ , she tried to shake off the fear that came with that thought. _He's a skilled warrior and he is not alone, all the others are with him_ , Shenlira struggled to persuade herself. Still her hands tightened around the reins and she urged the horse faster. Solas' gaze was trained forward in concentration while he rode to her left.

"Let's be swift, Wolf.", she called to him.

" _Mal alas'eral, Da'Assan_.", he answered. Shenlira glanced to the darkened forest flanking their path. The moon's light skipped across a grey shadow that flitted between the trees. The silver wolf ran side by side with them, holding the horse's pace persistently. _Yes, we hunt, brothers_., she affirmed with grim determination.


	17. XVII Jealousy, Thy Name is Delusion

As always, thank you for Favs and Follows! I really light up every time I get one. Comments are also always welcome! I upload this a little earlier than my usual schedule, because I did not want to keep you waiting for the big climax! I'm not even going to say any more about it. Have fun! (There is one "normal" chapter and an Epilogue still to come!)

* * *

 **XVII. Jealousy, Thy Name Is Delusion**

 _Never fear, little one,  
Wherever you shall go.  
Follow my voice-  
I will call you home.  
I will call you home.  
Dalish Lullaby _

* * *

"It's not working. I tried everything on the lock but without my tools…", Varric kicked the bars angrily and cursed before he flopped to the dust-covered ground in a frustrated way. Leliana had wrapped her cloak around Light-Foot to protect the young man against the mouldy moisture that oppressed the tiny room, for he'd started coughing spastically not a minute after the cell door had closed. As they learned from the hoarse explanation between his rasps, he had been held captive here for almost three weeks with next to no food or water. The harsh conditions had weakened him greatly. His coughs came wheezy and dry, making Leliana worry that he'd caught a lung disease during the many days of exposure to the unhealthy cellar air. Such an illness was dangerous if left unattended for too long, even in times of good healing magic and potions.

"Leave it for now.", Leliana said quietly to Varric while she held a small travel bottle with water to Light-Foot's lips. "There is not much we can do until someone finds us. I just hope to the Maker that it won't be too late… Light-Foot needs medical attention, and I fear… I fear that Cullen is in danger from that woman." Varric regarded her, frowning.

"Shit. You are right... She had to have meant him. People often call him 'Lion of the South', especially in the north. What does she plan to do with him?", the dwarf rubbed his temple, his gaze apprehensive. Light-Foot had also told them that the idea to investigate this alchemist shop in the first place had come from overhearing two templars in the Circle tower talking about it. The Weaver's Chosen tended to use this place as a possible hideout every now and then. What Light-Foot had not known, as he explained with a regretful, grudging expression, was that he'd been baited on purpose. The Chosen had lured him to the shop, supposedly by telling the templar to let the location drop in conversation inconspicuously. And all of that, it seemed, had been engineered to separate their fellowship and cut them off from each other so their enemy's machinations could unravel without disturbance. When the agent had arrived at the shop, two templars and the insidious woman herself had been waiting for him. He couldn't stand a chance against two seasoned warriors and a skilled mage, which was how he described the Chosen without a doubt. Now Leliana and Varric were trapped here with him, another thing that had been instigated carefully. The fact that Cassandra had not come looking for them yet, or maybe she had but not found them, was very troubling and they both knew it.

"I don't know. But I know what my every spy sense tells me: That woman is capable of anything, and she is out for vengeance. I still can't wrap my head around it. She looks exactly like Shenlira – or what Shenlira would look like if she were human.", Leliana thought aloud darkly.

"I would bet Bianca on it that they are sisters, but from different fathers. And I agree with you, although I cannot imagine what has to happen for a girl to go so wrong. She has tried to murder Robin once already, in a cruel and… very personal way. From the moment we arrived here, nothing has played out as we'd expected. I hate to say this, but… I think we jumped out of the frying pan into the fire." Varric let out a sigh and swore under his breath.

"How could she have trapped us with this easily… Damn it, I should have seen it coming!", Leliana burst out angrily, making him flinch from the intense reaction, although he could sympathize quite well. She hated to walk blindly in such a precarious situation. If they did not get out of here soon to warn Cullen and Shenlira… Still, he tried to soothe the spymaster's conscience.

"Seen what? That Shenlira has a crazy homicidal half-sister who is at the same time a maleficar no one knew about, and likely hell-bent on undoing us all? How could you have possibly anticipated that, Nightingale? You cannot be all-knowing-", but she suddenly hushed him with a fierce gesture. They both fell silent and listened, holding even their breaths so they might notice the tiniest sounds. For a long moment, nothing moved at all. Varric almost started to remark his disappointment, but then – faint footsteps, almost inaudible, coming from above, and a moment later they heard muted voices conversing. One second passed before they started calling out to whoever was up there.

"Help us! We're in the cellar! A trapdoor beneath the carpet!", Leliana cried desperately.

"Let us out, it's a matter of life and death!", Varric joined her in a booming voice.

* * *

"You shouldn't have followed us.", Shenlira rebuked Cub as they entered the darkened hallway of Noel's shop. Her wolf merely huffed and shook himself. The long run had tired him and she worried that he was much too old for such a strenuous chase. Solas held out his hand and a lively green-blue flame of Veilfire appeared on his palm. Its flickering light made strange silhouettes dance on the walls as they proceeded to the back of the house into the ransacked study. It was exactly as Shenlira remembered it, apart from the rampant vandalism: Dreary and bedraggled, dust covering most surfaces and cheap paint peeling from the walls.

"What a bleak place for a child to grow up in.", Solas commented, looking around the dingy, chaotic room.

"It looks abandoned… Maybe she left here as soon as she found a way how. I know I would have…", Shenlira agreed in a disconsolate tone. Her gaze fell to the broken potion flasks on the floor. "I dreamed about this… Colourful glass bottles breaking apart, a man cried out in anger... And then just this ghastly laugh…" The mage regarded her regretfully.

"Likely you did not dream, but actually saw what Orianna was doing at the time. Blood ties might spawn such erratic connections unconsciously if one side experiences a very strong emotion. Although you did not inherit your mother's magical abilities, I strongly suspect Orianna has. We have to be careful, _Da'Assan_. Exceptional skill without conscience is a deadly and dangerous blend." Shenlira's expression grew pained at those words, for they made it sound unlikely that her sister could still be reasoned with. Solas seemed to think she was beyond helping, even if he did not state it bluntly. They both froze when they heard muffled voices all of a sudden. It sounded as though people were yelling beneath their feet. Shenlira let out a startled cry.

"Someone is down there!", she exclaimed, dropping to her knees, her ear pressed against the stone floor.

"A cellar beneath the house?", Solas let the flame burn brighter so it illuminated the whole room as they searched for a way down. Cub pushed between them into the study, ears alert and nose sniffing the ground thoroughly. A moment later, he started pawing and growling at a conspicuous carpet. Shenlira immediately pulled it aside to reveal a trap door. The voices became much clearer when she opened it. Leliana and Varric called for help in unison, but fell silent when they heard someone drop down into the musty cellar. Solas lit a lonely sconce with his flame and the ghostly light fell on their dishevelled companions standing at the bars of a locked cell door.

"Shenlira! Andraste be praised!", Leliana cried at the sight of them.

"The lockpicks! They are somewhere back there!", Varric pointed to the back of the room and Shenlira found the tools discarded to a dark corner while Solas examined the lock.

"Magically strengthened… I can open this. Should not take long." He let his hand hover over the metal and murmured fluent words to it. Shenlira turned to her trapped friends and noted that there was a third person inside the cell.

"Light-Foot.", Leliana explained at her confused expression. She proceeded to report the tale of their capture by Orianna in a practiced manner, just as her agents would report precisely to her. "The Chosen played us again, Inquisitor. She knew we would split up to follow Light-Foot's lead here. It was never an elf, not even a man. We couldn't believe it when we saw her face…"

"Shenlira, she looks exactly like you. She's…", Varric continued when Leliana's words went unfinished, but Shenlira interrupted him.

"My sister. I know." The words sounded impassive, but they felt her seethe behind the steely composure. Close to a breaking point. Her patience had run thin, a threadbare fabric barely covering the storm inside. Then, she added, "Her name is Orianna. I recovered my memories of her only hours ago." There was a sudden click and the lock jumped open, setting the prisoners free. As they all ascended the ladder up to the study, Shenlira explained in curt words to Leliana and Varric about Orianna's origins. They briefly startled when a big grey wolf greeted them in the hallway of the shop and took careful inventory of their scents. Leliana supported the weakened, coughing Light-Foot until they exited the ramshackle hut. Despite the reek of dirty streets and refuse, even the unpleasant air was much cleaner than the mouldy cellar.

"He needs a healer's attention. The Chosen had him locked up for weeks. Shenlira, listen, she didn't just simply catch us, there's more-", Leliana began, setting the young agent down against a wall. But they all suddenly jolted at the sound of thundering hoofbeats on the cobblestones. Someone rode down the deserted street, at breakneck speed like a vanguard of the apocalypse. Shenlira stepped from the side-alley, immediately jumping back again. Cassandra's horse almost trampled her. The seeker let out a shocked cry and reined the horse in, just barely. Why was she alone? Cullen and the veteran soldiers should have been with her.

"Shenlira! Thank the Maker!", she gasped, sliding off the horse. There were several fresh wounds on her arms and one on the leg, although they all seemed minor.

"Where is Cullen?", Shenlira demanded in a dead voice, her insides suddenly as cold as ice. Something terrible had happened, she knew with a certainty that felt like a wooden peg slammed into her gut. Cassandra did not answer immediately and she could barely keep the surge of naked panic under control.

"We were attacked… At the Circle tower, by Marcus.", the other woman finally answered, her eyes flashing with both anger and guilt. "He sicced two Shadows on me, I couldn't do anything-"

"Never mind that now, tell us what happened and quickly.", Leliana urged in a clipped tone. The rush of her own blood was like a roaring cyclone in Shenlira's ears. A wild urge to scream overcame her when Cassandra explained how Marcus had brutally struck Cullen unconscious, then taken him away while the seeker was fighting for her life against the red templars. Cullen, her brave, loyal, proud love, divested of his strength and dragged off by the one who'd torn apart the only family she'd ever known. To Orianna, for sure. Insane, out-of-her-mind Orianna, who would use him without mercy to get to her sister, take her very heart.

"I don't know where they went. It took me forever to kill the two Shadows and when I finally got outside, they were gone without a trace. I am so sorry…", Cassandra leaned into the side of her horse and hung her head in shame, but Shenlira gripped her arm, a gesture that implored the woman to meet her gaze.

"There is nothing to apologize for, Sandra." Somehow, she managed to keep her voice calm, although the savage yearning for a chance to call Marcus and her sister to account for such a hateful deed boiled her alive with rage. At the same time the mad, helpless fear that Orianna might torment Cullen, might even kill him, made her knees so weak she thought she'd buckle over… _No. Don't you dare fall to pieces. He needs you to be strong, now more than ever_ , Shenlira whipped herself inwardly. Solas' hand on her shoulder roused her from those simmering feelings of revenge and anxiety.

"What should we do, _Da'Assan?_ ", he queried, a troubled frown between his brows. Shenlira inhaled once.

"You only have three horses and we can't leave Light-Foot here alone, he is seriously ill. Go to the tower and try to find Cullen. I'll follow you soon, and bring the city guard with me.", Leliana suggested. Shenlira didn't think twice, but mounted the borrowed mare and pulled Varric up into the saddle behind her. Cassandra took the lead. Solas fell into suite behind her as they flew across the streets towards the Circle tower. It took about half an hour to search the close vicinity, but they had no luck finding any clues where Marcus could have taken Cullen to. The road was littered with at least a dozen different pairs of footprints, which made tracking them impossible. When a second, more thorough search of the surrounding fields and abandoned cottages did not yield any results, Shenlira dismounted her horse. She threw her head back and let out a piercing scream of outrage, a sound that went through bone and marrow. Solas and Varric exchanged a disconcerted look. Neither of them had ever seen her this angry or desperate – she shook with it, face an ashen mask hewn from white marble. Colour fled her vision, replaced by a red haze and a bloodthirst she'd never thought herself capable of. For the first time in her life, she wanted to kill. Not to save a life, not to defend against an attacker, not out of some noble notion for the world's justice. This was personal, intimate even. Someone had taken what was hers, and for that insult, that defilement of what was sacred to her, they should not, would not see the light of day.

Cub, who had pursued them all through town and to the tower, made soft sounds in the back of his throat, nuzzling her idle hand as she stood and stared off into the distance. She let her fingers burrow into the dense collar of fur at his neck and drew a small measure of comfort from that familiar touch. Then, an idea hit her like a hammer-strike and she uttered a filthy curse that she hadn't thought of it before. The wolf had a nose more magnificent than any skill in tracking known by human or elf. Her companions watched as Shenlira unfastened Cullen's cloak from her saddlebag and kneeled down before a watchful Cub. She held out the fur and feather lining to her wolf, who snuffled the fabric over systematically.

"Find him for me, Cub.", she whispered. His ears pricked towards her, alerted to the sound of his name. The wolf turned and inhaled from the cool night air, tail pointed straight backwards. He circled the area a few times, nose close to the ground, then suddenly let out a long howl that Shenlira knew by heart. Cub darted along the trail and led their way as they rode once more through the stark blackness of the night, hoping against hope that they did not come too late.

* * *

The crimson sand sparkled like stardust as it rained down into the crystal bowl. Refined red lyrium, mixed with blood, swirling in a tantalizing vortex. Orianna spoke some fluent incantation which made the blighted liquid shimmer and glow in an eerie red hue. Cullen felt a peculiar sensation crawl over his skin, neither painful nor pleasant, but it made him shudder nevertheless – magic, his templar senses warned, rearing in alarm. It was like being intimately touched by a stranger, conniving and intrusive. His muscles went rigid at the sensation. Orianna's fingers flexed. The Chosen was angry, for she'd been trying to subdue Cullen's will and bind it with several complex enchantments, all conducted with the help of his blood. All to no avail. She had shown him glimpses of glorious futures where he would be celebrated as the greatest general of his time, beckoned him with every seductive promise that his heart could ever long for, but things like that could not sway him. He prevailed. Just like Shenlira had endured the nightmare until he'd come to save her from its clutches, Cullen pitted himself against this crazed tormentor. She'd spun her lies patiently at first. Wooing, calculated. But as all temptation had beaded off him like water off an oily surface, she'd become increasingly violent, pummelling his mind with hers in a battering ram-like fashion. Cullen had to give her credit. The single-minded hatred that had fathered this woman was a formidable opponent. But he was Sajnalin, and he knew a few things about discipline of the mind. He would not be broken. All Orianna had managed to do was to cause discomfort and exhaustion. Although he felt weakened, it was still bearable. He had withstood her insidious machinations so far. Now she concocted some fresh hell, her eyes surveying him like glinting, cold shards of veridium.

"You're a tenacious one, I will give you that. Yet…" The pale hand above the crystal bowl twitched and Cullen felt a twinge run along the length of his body. A strange pain, as though the nerves and muscles had been overly exerted after rigorous sparring. It made him tense all over and struggle against his restraints, eliciting a cat-like hiss from Orianna. With disgust, Cullen watched as the blood rose like some horrid ribbon from the bowl and she moved her hands just like a weaver did with a thread. True to her name, she intertwined her hideous magic with his life-force and the red lyrium. A trickle of ice ran down Cullen's spine, for Orianna's spell was not entirely her own. Another presence whispered the secrets of the binding ritual to her. She was fed power to complete a spell she otherwise would never have been able or skilled enough to do. The true instigator's cunning tendrils were suddenly so intense that Cullen gagged as though he'd swallowed some revolting liquid. The blood threads coiled elegantly in front of the Weaver's Chosen, then coagulated inside the glass phylactery she held ready. For the fraction of a second, the connection became visible. A demon, more powerful and older than even the Architect had been, his claws buried into Shenlira's sister so deeply, impossible to not tell where one ended and the other began. But she was not possessed like a mage who turned into an abomination. They were… a parasite and the host it fed on, the leeching cobwebs stretching away from her to…

"How will you fight this, great lion?", the voice that spoke was not human. Cullen ignored it and tried to see through the haze of blood magic, to find where the demon had made its lair. And then came pain. Out of nowhere, exploding inside his head with a ferocity that made him cry out, a devastating agony. A giant beast ground him ruthlessly to dust between its jaws. He was being undone. Milled to bone powder. Conflagrated to cinders. It nearly wrecked him. When it finally eased after what felt longer than a lifetime, he slumped forward in the chair, panting raggedly. Orianna said something, but the words were muffled to his overstrung senses. She seemed agitated though, because through the blurry, colourless haze, Cullen could see Marcus face her instead of the painting. The Chosen glared at him, holding up the faintly glowing, battered glass vial. Was its shine brighter now?

"… How did she know, father?! You said you left the seeker with two of your Shadows! Now they are wasted, my sister found us anyway!", Orianna hissed, making a muscle in Marcus' jaw twitch. "I'm not ready yet. Go and stall her, that's all you're good for anymore." Wild, ardent, beloved Lira. She had come to save him. Fierce pride and hideous terror amalgamated in Cullen's heart, for he knew Orianna had intended it to be like this, engineered it. She wanted to watch her sister suffer.

"Orianna… I only have a pair of men left. If Shenlira is not alone, I don't stand a chance-", Marcus began, but fell silent when he saw the glint in his daughter's eyes. He was right, though. Blood soaked relentlessly through the bandage around his shoulder and he looked paler than a corpse. His strength was failing. Yet, even to her own father, Orianna showed no mercy or pity, only made a dismissive gesture.

"Your own fault for squandering the gifts I gave you and getting yourself stabbed by one of your own, and he doesn't even use lyrium. Do you have no pride at all? At least have the courage to die for the shame you brought upon us.", she hissed at him. Almost unnoticeably, Marcus flinched, an expression of deepest insult flashing across his pallid face.

"Don't do it, Marcus. You're not her slave! Fight it-", Cullen urged him desperately, but Orianna whirled around, her hand tightening around the phylactery with his blood. Rage seared through his veins, its torturous flare so vicious and vindictive that his vision went black and he lost consciousness.

* * *

"This is where Marcus took Cullen to?", Cassandra asked in disbelief. Their small party had followed Cub on a race across Wycome's outskirts to an abandoned manor reminiscent of a scary children's tale. The gloomy, decrepit brick construction rose between a cluster of dead trees that had surely been a beautiful apple orchard in its lifetime. Now it was a ghostly garden of gnarled branches and greyish grass, an ugly blotch on the colourful tapestry of the Wycome countryside. The milky windows were either broken or boarded up. An eerie atmosphere lingered over the house, as though some malevolent spectre haunted it, driving away all life that might have any ideas to settle here. Heavy silence burdened the air, and at the same time something charged it unnaturally so every breath seemed to burn with an unsettling energy. The sensation made the hair on Shenlira's nape stand to an end. Cub stood rigidly in front of the wrought iron gates, every hackle raised.

"This place radiates malice. The citizens might say it is haunted, but even spirits give it a wide berth. Something stirs inside. Watch your every step.", Solas cautioned them all. Shenlira drew Heartwood from her back. The others unsheathed their weapons in unison as she kicked open the gate.

"They day when Cub's nose is wrong has yet to come. Be ready for anything. If either of you sees Cullen and can get to him, do it, even if you have to leave my side. Understood?", those words held a leader's tone of command, and although her companions looked stricken, she stared them down until each nodded their assent.

A short walk through the withered courtyard later, Solas blasted open the grand ebony double doors and they all filed into a wide hall, where Marcus stood waiting for them, flanked by two red templar. For the first time in nearly twenty years, Shenlira set sight upon the man responsible for the burns on her back and her mother's untimely death. She did not know what she had expected, but the truth shocked her. He was more corpse than man, wounded shoulder bleeding all over his sword-arm, while the other ended in a monstrous red lyrium claw. His face seemed suspended in a perpetual expression of torment, an almost pitiful thing to behold. Still, Shenlira's arrow pointed at his heart with unerring precision.

"Where is he? Tell me, you pathetic creature, or I swear I will strike you down for all that you have done to me and mine!", she managed between clenched teeth. Simultaneously, she could not quite believe that Orianna would send her own father to a fight in such a state. It was clear that his life-force was almost spent. Had she no mercy?

"We are all doomed to live our personal hell.", Marcus rasped in a clipped tone. Despite the fact that he could not win, the rogue templar attacked. His two last loyal comrades flew at Solas and Cassandra, but they did not last long. They faced a team that had battled together through demons and Venatori, broken sieges and prevailed in skirmishes that had seemed hopeless. They fell mere minutes after the fight had begun, leaving behind a lone and weakened Marcus. He battled and slashed with a careless desperation, but still his crystal fist was soon shattered by a combined attack from Shenlira and Varric. An arrow skewered his upper arm before Cassandra's shield bash bore him to the ground not a second later. He crumpled to the floor like a puppet that had lost its strings, groaning. The glinting tip of her arrow shook as Shenlira aimed it right at the man's face, yet her voice was cold, void of emotion.

"Why?", she demanded. Marcus raised his head, meeting her gaze. The guilt and pain in his bloodshot eyes stopped her short. The very essence of his soul pleaded with her from those orbs abandoned by life. Whoever had resided there before, they were long gone, an empty shell now overpouring with shame.

"Mar'Alenna, my love… Forgive me for what I have done… My fury ruined your beauty, and yet here you stand, just like the day I met you…", he croaked in a tormented voice, stretching his hand towards Shenlira, who backed off in shock at those words.

"I am not she! You killed her! Do you hear me?! You killed her in your madness!", she spat at him. Heartwood lowered and she flung out her hand in a kneejerk reaction, but Solas held her back with surprising strength.

"No, _Da'Assan_. He might be despicable, but he's not in his right mind. There is no sanity left inside him. It's not worth your anger, and not worth polluting your spirit by killing such a lost creature.", he implored her quietly. Before Shenlira could speak, Marcus interjected, his gaze suddenly clear.

"He is right. Once, I hunted her down in the woods and wounded her. But I had not the heart to end it. I thought she would die, but she lived… Lived happily somewhere in a new life, never looking back at the man she'd claimed she'd loved. So I went on the eternal hunt once more. There was no justice in what I did. No honour. I wanted to make her feel the pain I had felt. Nothing stopped me. I killed the woman I loved. I would have killed you, if not for Cassian.", he barked a humourless, self-deprecating laugh. "Serves me right that my own daughter sends me to die in shame. I captured the lion for her, but then I saw how… untainted he was. I can never be like that again… Pure, proud…", he trailed away, huffing in pain.

"You can. Tell us where she took him and how to defeat her, everything that can help us! At least try for a measure of redemption!", Cassandra growled as she grabbed his injured shoulder. It took a moment for Marcus to collect himself, then he met Shenlira's eyes for a long, lingering moment.

"There is a cavern below the manor. Some sort of… buried ruin. The lord who owned this land had the whole place rebuilt, including the basement. If you take the… the back route, through that door… You might surprise her. Maybe you are not too late.", he took a deep, shuddering breath. "I can't tell you more. I'm still bound… by her will." Marcus fell back against the wall and the companions gathered around Shenlira exchanged troubled looks. Shenlira herself looked down at the once proud templar and felt a grudging pity for the tragic events that had shaped him thus. And yet… She could not forgive him for tearing her family apart. To kill him, though… that would have been murder.

"Death comes for me even if you do not deliver it now. The Maker… has turned from my shame a long time ago… When I go, his warm light will not embrace me. But I might see her again… You need to hurry.", Marcus seemed to sense her internal struggle when he uttered those words. Shenlira heaved a sigh and shook herself, nodding to the others.

"Leave him. He cannot fight like that anyway.", she affirmed and hurried towards the door Marcus had pointed them to. Cassandra, Varric and Solas were right behind her, Cub slinking along alertly to her right as they made their way through a complicated maze of corridors and staircases, downward into the belly of the caverns below the manor. The farther they went, the stronger her sense of urgency became, until they traversed a narrow hallway that lay almost in complete darkness. An unsettling aura emanated from the far end, and Shenlira instinctively knew that this was it.

"Stand ready.", she whispered to the others and her step accelerated, almost flying towards the wooden door. Kicking it open unceremoniously, she charged into the room like a squall, bow raised and loaded. She glimpsed the entirety of the cavern in one fraction of a second: the garlands of red lyrium around the gruesome framed picture, the winding stairs up to a raised balcony, an empty metal chair with a cluttered desk. Two mages instantaneously moved to block their way to Orianna, who stood before the painting, holding Cullen in a headlock. She gripped something tightly in her free hand, grinning madly. There were subtle differences in those human features, yet still she was a haunting image of Mar'Alenna. Shenlira felt as though looking at a mirror that perverted her reflection into an ugly mask of contempt. Her mother's firstborn would have been a striking beauty if her appearance hadn't been twisted by madness.

Cullen seemed only half-conscious, his face contorted as though he was suffering some excruciating pain. The sight made Shenlira livid with a fury that could not be put into words. Both mages swung their staves simultaneously, but something beyond physical speed infused her bow at that moment. One fell even before he cast his first spell, arrow ripping through the major artery at the side of his neck. His partner screamed in shock before he sent a volley of fire in their direction. Shield raised, Cassandra rushed in to intercept them, while Varric shot from behind – at the same time when Solas summoned a boulder from thin air and sent it flying towards the attacker. They hit their mark. The mage was borne to the ground by the force of it, crossbow bolt buried deep in his chest. Heartwood was already loaded again when Orianna's scream reverberated through the room.

"Nobody move or he dies!" All of them froze in dread. Shenlira's heart dropped to her stomach when she saw Cullen forced to his knees before a crystal spike, the beginning of a third formation of red lyrium between the two that framed the painting already. Orianna grabbed his hair brutally and pushed him so close to the razor-sharp tip that Shenlira could see it press treacherously against the vulnerable, exposed side of his neck.

"Stand down.", she commanded the others with a quivering voice, not that she needed to. They were perfectly still beside her, their weapons lowered. Fear and anger threatened to become overwhelming, an unstoppable avalanche that buried all in its path. The tension was just too much. She watched the man she loved take shallow breaths like someone stretched out on a torture rack. They had beaten his noble face to a ruin, split his cheek and broken his nose. His throat, skin covered by a sheen of sweat, rippled with a swallow as his eyes fluttered open. Orianna was doing something to him, something that caused him such agony he could not concentrate or resist her at all. Shenlira barely fought down the urge to strangle her sister with her bare hands for such an atrocity. It rose inside her like a vicious, feral beast and the only thing that held it at bay was that Cullen managed to focus his gaze on her face. She had no idea what he saw, which emotions had made it to the surface. But their intensity made him struggle against his restraints despite the dangerous closeness of the red lyrium spike.

"Lira!", he breathed before Orianna ripped back his head, hissing angrily.

"Silence, stubborn creature!" She balled her fist and Cullen's anguished cry nearly cleaved Shenlira's heart in two. Solas flinched beside her, his expression appalled, making her wish desperately that they could somehow communicate without having to speak aloud. Orianna's eyes brimmed with savage satisfaction. "Pain breaks them all, even the most tenacious ones. Any funny business from you or your entourage, and I will spill his life-blood right in front of your eyes, dear sister."

"Orianna… All this bloodshed… All this violence… Do you truly hate me so much?", Shenlira asked in an anguished voice, "We are kin. We came to this world from the same mother!" The woman who'd plotted murder against her once before let out a mirthless laugh, a sound of pure scorn.

"So you remember me now? It only took you two decades and one attempt on your life to notice me. True, we came from the same mother. But while you lived your life never lacking for anything, food, shelter, family – I had to grovel and beg for scraps to get by! You rose to be a respected person in that filthy knife-ear clan of yours and where was I? Earning coppers with cheap magic tricks and cursed amulets for vengeful wives, the daughter of the famous Mar'Alenna going to waste. You might have had mother's love, but I had her talent for magic. I became powerful enough to kill the last of her coven before I turned twenty years of age! I designed miracles you could never have even dreamed of. And still, you outshone me every step of the way." A flash of unspeakable anger crossed her face as she went on, "When I heard you had become a revered leader who people sung songs about, whose heroic acts were known across four nations… While I rotted away in the same dingy part of a town full of mindless sheep… We swore then to get revenge, whatever the cost."

"We…?", Varric whispered to Shenlira's right, confused. Orianna proceeded to rain hateful words on her sister, each stinging with accusation, like a whip of barbed wire.

"So I went to your archenemy. Corypheus. He soon understood that I could be very useful to him when I laid out my plan to make a powerful demon possess you. It took me ages to find one worthy of such a task. My friend… he was so beautiful. Built such intricate labyrinths.", she said this in a strangely wistful tone, as though mourning a true loss. Her voice subtly changed, became somehow hideous, darker, as though it was not quite her own anymore. Shenlira felt herself recoil from it. "I always had a knack for designing… Hmm… very specific items. Spells that exploited weaknesses in a single person. How did you like my grand design? Too bad this stubborn 'Commander' of yours put a damn spoke in my wheel." She pulled Cullen's hair ruthlessly once again and he gasped when the spike pierced his skin, drawing a trickle of blood. "I cut his claws pretty well."

Before Shenlira could retaliate at her for the taunt, she felt Solas fingers brush over hers ever so slightly, not more than a butterfly's wings on her skin. Yet his thought was like a bull's charge against her mind, nothing remotely like the gentle nudges during the _Somniar'shiral_. That he barged in without the deference and respect she was used to showed how urgently he wanted to impart his message on her. Even though she didn't resist the invasion, the force of it was staggering.

 _Da'Assan. Whatever she's holding there, it's what she uses to hurt him. The magic is… barbaric, crude. Just looking at it sickens me. And be wary. I sense another presence here… The Veil is thin, but the red lyrium twists everything…_

Then he was gone and Shenlira shuddered from the dire warning that had been woven into those words. They had to be very careful now, for any sudden movement or sign of attack might cause Orianna to snap and impale Cullen on the crystal spine. She prayed, for the first time in years, to any god who would listen. Prayed that her companions would trust her without second thoughts. Signalling them to stay back and not move, she took one exceedingly cautious step forward. The thunder of own blood was nearly deafening. Her heart tossed itself against its cage, throbbing through every muscle, right down to her bones. _He will not die. He cannot. I won't allow it._ Summoning courage she did not feel she truly had, Shenlira swallowed down the thick knot that sealed her throat shut.

"Orianna, it's not too late to stop this. You could have come to me any time, I would never have turned you away. Please, let him go, and even after everything, I will see to it that you live. And live comfortably. See?" She would later not know by what means she managed to keep her voice calm and steady, when the mind-numbing fear for Cullen thrashed and screamed so violently, threatening to rip her insides apart. It was the hardest thing she ever had to do, but Shenlira lowered her bow to the ground and, still on her knees, held up her hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Come to you? Do you take me for a moron? A grovelling weakling who would put herself at the mercy of your good-will? Spare me your fake sympathy, you conceited bitch!", Orianna snapped maliciously. "All you care about is saving the neck of your precious lover. Fuck you! I spit on your pity!" Cullen's eyes flickered to hers frantically, and Shenlira saw the naked dread in them, knowing beyond doubt that it was not for himself. He feared for her, standing defenceless, face to face with a woman who had no scruples anymore whatsoever, whose greatest desire was to see her in pain. By holding his gaze, she tried desperately to plead with him not to interfere with what she intended to do now.

"It's not him you truly want to hurt, is it? I'm the one who you want to take revenge on, isn't that right? Do it. They won't step in. I commanded them not to. They obey without question.", she reassured when Orianna flashed the companions behind her a suspicious glance. "I'm unarmed and begging you, on my knees. Anything, if you let him go. He didn't do you harm, Orianna. I did." Cullen inhaled sharply in dismay as she spoke those words. Varric and Cassandra gasped, but Solas quelled them with a look. Something odd flickered in her sister's gaze, an emotion close to uncertainty, confusion… Yet it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. Shenlira did not dare to breathe in the seconds that followed, waiting to see if the mad woman would take the bait. The tension in the room felt almost palpable, a stifling pressure on the ears.

And then, from one moment to the next, Orianna's let go of Cullen and lashed out so swiftly, her hand a mere blur slicing the air. She couldn't resist a chance to catch Shenlira unprotected. Flames leaped up from the ground and moved towards her sister, like rolling waves that devoured everything in their wake. They wreathed around Shenlira and rose to an all-engulfing dome, encasing her inside a searing vortex. Over the roar of the fire she heard Orianna cackle with unbridled glee, and still Cullen's dreadful scream drowned it out, mingling with the cries of the others.

Helplessly lying on the ground, he had to watch her disappear in the inferno. The torment of the phylactery had been nothing, nothing, compared to the wrecking despair he felt then. But only a moment passed, before the flaming wall parted and relief crashed over him when Shenlira stepped through unharmed. The barrier shimmered around her like a crystal shell and her face was that of a vengeful goddess, chiselled from a crushing ire that knew no forgiveness. There was no beauty in it, only fierce purpose as she drew back the bow without hesitation. The first bright-white arrow, imbued by Solas' magic, streaked across the room like a shooting star and shattered the spike of red lyrium Orianna had intended to impale Cullen on. Shenlira squandered no time and aimed her next to Orianna's right, missing on purpose. But it did what she had intended: Her sister screeched in outrage and sidestepped the projectile, moving away from Cullen.

"Protect him, don't mind me!", Shenlira ordered Cassandra in a tone that didn't allow objection, for Orianna had already gathered herself again. The seeker rushed to Cullen but was overtaken by a blur of grey as Cub charged in. The next he knew, the wolf stood over him, teeth bared towards their foe and a feral growl rising from his throat. It made even their insane adversary stop in her tracks. The short moment was all they needed. An arrow and a bolt flew at Orianna and she was distracted by the need to deflect them. The projectiles shattered before they reached her, but Solas' staff struck the floor with a deafening crack and a wall of ice thrust from the ground. Then it was burned away by a whip of flame as the Chosen pirouetted out of its reach, red-hot ribbons lashing out from her like the tentacles of some gruesome sea monster. She was a mage of prodigious talent and no respect for life, and she attacked them mercilessly, raining fire and treacherous shadows without relent. Something beyond mere ability seemed to infuse her with raw power, making her faster than humanly possible, permitting her spells to hit like flaming hammer-strikes, destructive and almost impossible to dodge. They fought her three against one, and still it took all of their concentration, every ounce of their skill not to be charred to cinders.

"Sandra, I can't-", Cullen gasped as she steadied him to a sitting position. The seeker had broken his shackles with one decisive sword strike and her shield stood like a barrier against the magical shrapnel that flew in all directions from the fierce fight. Cullen's eyes were fixed in horror on the scene. Shenlira might falter for just one heartbeat, might not sidestep just in time. The thought was driving him insane. Only one second of inattention could mean death. He reared up, desperately wanting to help her somehow, but his whole body felt as though he'd been thrashed by a colossal brute. Every bone hurt, every muscle burned, his very blood boiled in agony.

"Stay down, Cullen!", Cassandra hissed at him. "You can't possibly think you'll fight like this. Shenlira will kill me if I let you." Cullen shook his head in denial.

"You don't understand – she's possessed by a demon! Or not possessed but… somehow bonded to one. If I can't use my powers-", he was cut off when the pain peaked and he could not suppress a groan. Cub leaned into him, the pressure of his body providing an anchor to hold on to. Cullen laid his hand onto the thick fur at the wolf's spine. Cassandra's face was stretched taut with worry and strain.

"What is it? Why are you in such pain? Is it the red lyrium?", she asked in trepidation, her gaze flickering to the vicious fight every few seconds.

"That would be bad enough, it's so loud… But I can bear that. Orianna has these… phylacteries. It doesn't matter right now how, but I can't do anything until it's destroyed." He pointed a shaking finger at Shenlira's sister, and Cassandra saw the set of glass vials bounce, dangling on threads from her belt as she danced her destructive dance of death, laughing like a lunatic. Cub growled and the seeker nodded in grim assent. They would get to the thing. It took a minute until they found an opening in Orianna's guard. One of her fire spells clashed with an ice barrier conjured by Solas and she was pushed back momentarily. Cassandra and Cub charged at her side by side. Orianna let out a scathing hoot that mingled with the seeker's war cry, but her focus was baited and allowed Cub to flit in. While the Chosen assaulted the shield with sizzling spikes of shadow, the wolf lunged and grabbed her by the belt. He ripped the thing off. His defiance drew both her attention and wrath upon him. She lashed out and he yelped pitifully when the blow struck his ribcage and sent him flying. A blast of rage made manifest threw Cassandra back, but she moved like a bolt of lightning to Cub's defence, holding her shield high. Yet Orianna did not attack. It was Shenlira's voice that cut through the air.

"Cub, NO! You'll pay for this, hateful shrew!", she screeched like a vengeful harpy. Her arrow flew and hit Orianna through the shoulder, making the woman cry out. Cub was on the ground, panting disjointedly. He had held on to the belt as though his life depended on it. Cassandra felt overwhelmed by the boundless loyalty of the brave companion. She took the leather girdle from him and with a vicious strike, smashed all three phylacteries that had been attached to it. A few feet away, Cullen let out a sound of unending relief. But their victory did not hold for long.

"Enough! Enough of all of this! I'll crush you all like roaches!" Orianna ripped the arrow from beneath her collarbone, uncaring that she let her life-force gush from the torn artery through that act. She did blood magic then, in a way that reminded Shenlira horribly of what her mother had done right before she died. Her own blood flowed around her in an almost graceful pattern. The scarlet tendrils wound towards the painting behind her, and the exact moment they touched it, the thing came alive. Something from beyond answered Orianna's macabre summons, pushing into the real world through the Veil and reaching for her with glorious purpose.

"Demon!", Solas cried out, alarmed. They all felt the presence, its chill sending trickles of ice down their spines. Hatred that knew no bounds, a malignant wish to rip from their hands what it could never have. It spoke beautiful lies and spun unprotected thoughts to twisted delusions. Honed the desire for another's possessions, the jealousy that was so intricately mortal. And so easily used to make a weapon out of it, like this gorgeous vessel right here. She would be sharper than the sharpest blade, more destructive than any spell, for she was fuelled by a bottomless well of scorn and bitterness. Orianna began changing in front of their eyes, her limbs twisting unnaturally, the striking beauty of her face overtaken by a hideous visage that held nothing remotely human anymore. Her lustrous skin turned the sickly greyish-blue of a corpse lifted from a watery grave, and they could only watch her transformation in horror, stunned by the stifling presence of the demon. All but one.

It was Marcus, the father of a poor soul gone so wrong, who lunged from the balcony and struck his gleaming templar sword into the painting. Somehow, impossibly, despite his wounds and shattered mind, he'd crawled down the corridors and come to make an end of this tragedy. To take back his honour. A beacon of light cut the offensive image in two, right through the centre, and Orianna screamed her outrage at the betrayal.

"Father, you coward! We could have been invincible!" She spoke in forked tongues, her own voice and the demon's mingled to a virulent discord that felt painful to the ear. By destroying the painting, Marcus had somehow disrupted the metamorphosis and now Orianna was an abomination half-formed. She looked like some appalling monster stitched together by a madman.

"No, my pitiful child… Your torment ends today.", her father said. A regret too vast to be grasped rang in his words.

The twisted creature screeched and Marcus was flung through the air. She smashed him through the pillars of red lyrium that came tumbling down in a shower of crimson shards. When she finally relented, the old templar lay in the remnants of her havoc like a broken doll. He took one lone, shallow breath and then moved no more. As Orianna turned to the horrified faces surrounding her, her monstrous gaze found Shenlira. Her sister was trembling with rage at the brutal killing they'd just witnessed. The bow fell to the ground. Her left hand erupted in a flare of eerie green light. The Anchor came to life so forcefully that the whole room drowned in its dazzling shine for a moment. Orianna moved to attack and all of the companions seemed to break from their trance.

Several things happened at once. Spells and bolts and sword strikes rained onto the abomination, but to no avail. And yet suddenly it stopped in its tracks, one clawed hand raised high, frozen. Locked. They felt its fury about being rendered immobile like a searing flame, but the world had solidified around it to an unyielding reality. _You will never kill again._ Cullen. He kneeled before the ruined painting, one arm protectively around Cub, the other stretched out towards Orianna. The very space around him emptied, plunged into magical vacuum, all that would intrude from the Fade abolished. No red lyrium to sing its ugly song, no crushing pain to distract him, he was able to use his power and lock the creature down. Shenlira did not hesitate, for Cullen had left a channel open for her in his nullification field. She turned the full force of the Anchor on her sister, the same power that closed rifts and destroyed demons. The beam of energy caught around the monster like spectral chains and began tearing at it without mercy. Unbound green lightning charged the very air as the demon was peeled from Orianna's spirit, the excruciating excision of a tumour. She screamed as though she was being slaughtered, until the last shred of taint had been ripped and cauterized from her. The light faded and the magical pressure eased, leaving behind the view of a room completely rampaged. Orianna, human again and bloodied, slumped to the ground with a thud and lay there, motionless.

For a lingering moment there was absolute silence in the cavern. Then, suddenly frantic calls came from above and Leliana barged into the room, a pack of city guards at her back with their weapons drawn. Shenlira paid them no heed. She flew to Cullen's side. He had leaned back against the wall, Cub's head resting on his thigh. She fell to her knees and her arms enclosed his waist, face burying against his chest. A sob that couldn't be controlled came from her throat and she felt him return her embrace with his free arm. But it lacked his usual strength, a mere ghost of it.

"Lira… Don't cry, my love. It's over now.", Cullen whispered near soundlessly. Then he fell silent. She felt his muscles go slack, hand falling away from her shoulder. Panicked, she pulled back.

"Cullen? _Vhenan_ , wake up!", her voice quivered, face wide-eyed and terrified. Cassandra had lowered to his other side and examined him swiftly, taking count of his injuries.

"He is just unconscious, Shenlira. They battered his face and he received shallow cuts to his thigh and arm, but those are paltry wounds for a man of his constitution. I suspect that his mind suffered worse, from the closeness of all the red lyrium, and whatever that monster did to him. The guards are already getting a horse-cart so he'll be comfortable.", her friend explained. Shenlira's eyes roamed over his features for a moment longer, then she looked down at Cub. Her wolf regarded her quietly, yet the shallow rise and fall of his chest spoke clearly of the pain he felt. She only hoped it was nothing more vital than a broken rib or two as she gently reached out and laid her hand to the bushy side of his neck. His eyes closed and he let out a huff.

"I don't want to stay in this city. Could we… could we bring them both back to the clan?", she asked hoarsely.

"Of course, my friend." Cassandra's tone was deeply sympathetic. Shenlira observed as Cub and Cullen were carefully loaded onto litters and carried from the grim ruins of the cavern. She felt like a sleepwalker, not quite sure if she was even awake. The enormity of all that had transpired encroached on her mind and threatened to break it, as thin glass splintered beneath a grip too tight. She could not believe the horrible truth just then, neither that it might truly be over now.

"Robin.", Varric called her attention to him softly. She followed dazedly, walking through the vestiges of destruction that littered the room. He and Solas kneeled beside Orianna, or what was left of her anyway. Shenlira's breath caught when her sister's fingers twitched. Varric surveyed her with a serious expression.

"She's still alive, however that is possible.", he murmured. Solas turned the battered body over. They could see that the patches of skin where the demon had taken hold were replaced by ugly burn marks. Shenlira had directed the Anchor to tear away precisely the creature's taint, not more. _I still had hope that she could be saved,_ she thought bitterly. Orianna's once beautiful face now looked like a melted wax figure. The wound at her shoulder sprouted blood much too quickly to stem the bleeding.

"She is not long for this world. There is nothing we can do, if we even should.", Solas refrained from passing any judgement with his words, but his gaze held no forgiveness. Shenlira kneeled down next to her sister, the woman who had tormented her these last months and tried remorselessly to take away the things she held most dear. And yet… As she looked down into the disfigured features so similar once to her mother's, she felt tired all of a sudden. Tired of the anger that had led to this whole mess, of all the mistakes that had been made on both sides. Of their mother, who had made all the wrong choices because she had never trusted anyone in this world. There was only pity in Shenlira's heart now, a squeezing pain that radiated regret with every pulse. Orianna looked up at her, green eyes into grey ones.

"Sing…", she croaked in a broken voice. Despite everything, despite the fact that she didn't want to shed one tear over Orianna, they began rolling down her cheeks against her will. Her sister's bloody hand lifted slowly, as though it took every ounce of strength, to touch Shenlira's face. The trembling fingers brushed over the drops that fell like dew, the proof she'd sought for all her life there at last: She had cared.

" _Good-night, good-night  
It's time now to sleep  
The moon's watching over you and your dreams.  
Good night, good night,  
My sweet little one  
Tomorrow your eyes, they will light up the sun_

 _Good night, good night  
Sweet dreams for now.  
Drift off to sleep on your pillow of clouds.  
Good night, good night  
My sweet little friend  
Tomorrow's adventures, they will soon begin." _

Shenlira's gentle lullaby faded to a cracked whisper halfway through, but Orianna did not seem to mind. Her lids fluttered as though she was about to fall asleep, hand sinking back into her lap. A single tear escaped the corner of her eyes, ran its path down the serrated skin at her temple to come to rest in the nest of her hair. Dispersed between the dark red strands. Going, going, gone. She sighed once, a drawn-out breath that carried an ancient exhaustion, and at the same time infinite relief. Life is rich with bonds of singular nature. Mother to daughter, sibling to sibling, kin to kin. They go beyond the physical and into the unfathomable. The most modest form of magic, a magic that is owned by everyone and understood by so few. And as such, Shenlira sensed the spirit that left with that last exhalation. It lifted and soared above, finally liberated from the broken, mangled cage of the body it had shared with its tormentor for so long. Almost, she could hear a bubble of laughter, feel the dancing joy as it went. Free at last. Onward, to the endless sky. Then Orianna moved no more.


	18. XVIII Resolution

_Well, we arrived at the last "content" Chapter. There will still be a long epilogue after this, but the main story arc ends with this chapter. It was a long journey for our couple, both sweet and arduous. I have to tell you that I honestly felt sorry for Orianna in the end (even more so for Marcus). So much of what she'd become was built on false assumptions. They both were tragic figures. You might ask yourself why Mar'Alenna had let it all come to this in the first place? Was she simply a terrible person, the spider Marcus thought her to be? Well, part of it is supposed to stay open for speculation. But she was a calculating, shrewd person who truly never trusted anyone - except maybe her daughters, the only weakness she had. I like to think that she did the wrong thing for the right reasons when she decided to raise her daughters seperately, or when she sealed Shenlira's memories. Maybe she wished to protect them from the dangers of her past, with hope that they would one day overcome the distance between them and find each other. But fate had different ideas... As for Marcus... Had she ever really loved him back? Who can say? But... A mage of exceptional skill would likely not have let anyone come close enough to wound her with a sword, if she'd been truly determined to fight._

 _But now back to business! Have fun! :)_

* * *

 **XVIII. Resolution**

 _The Maker is our light in the darkness, and duty is the sword that strikes down upon our enemies. We do not seek wealth or acknowledgement, have no claim on riches, shall harbour no selfishness. Yet what are those inconceivable, abstract things to a mind that struggles against losing its most essential keepsakes, or to the soldier who stands alone in the tides of war? I have guided enough men over life's threshold to know that they do not reach for the divine in those final moments of mortality. There is an infinity left for that after death. Much rather, they yearn to set sight upon their loved ones, one last time. To put past grudges to rest, ask forgiveness for old hurts, speak a few words of affection. In the face of my greatest hardships, it was not faith that let me prevail, nor duty. It was a simple resolution, prosaic even as some might say: I protect that which I love. So it might continue to brighten each of my days, suffusing me with a vital force, a river that never runs dry. Upon that resolution I build my strength, and will it to be.  
Cullen_

* * *

A pale, misty morning dawned above the riverland when the horse cart was finally on its way towards the clan encampment, rolling smoothly along the western road. The city guard had let them go after Shenlira would not budge to their bidding for a detailed account about the whole 'crazed maleficar on a rampage in our peaceful, quiet Wycome" business. Yet _someone_ had to stay and clear things up, so Leliana and Solas volunteered, since many questions were still left unanswered. As an accomplished mage, Solas could examine the remnants of Orianna's sinister chamber, while Leliana was needed to negotiate between their party, the guards and the town officials. Her sister's body, along with Marcus, were taken away to a morgue and, as tradition dictated, prepared for cremation. Some hard facts were quite clear even before a thorough examination of the manor. Orianna had run wild in Wycome and done so unhindered because she had successfully corrupted the scarce templar presence, aided by her father. The guards described a gruesome, unresolved murder not long ago, where the burnt corpse of a local alchemist had been found, discarded carelessly to the bottom of a well. Of course Orianna would have covered her tracks by removing every obstacle that might have stood in her way, even poor old Noel. She'd been crafty and resourceful, yet a portion of those traits had surely derived from her parasitic bond to the demon. Solas identified him as Jealousy, one of the rarest denizens that walked the Fade.

Now Shenlira sat beside Cullen and Cub, her palm resting lightly on his hand as she surveyed his battered face. He was still unconscious, and although Solas had assured her he would most likely be fine, her insides wrenched painfully when she considered what he had been put through at the hands of her sister. But it could have been much worse. Shenlira thanked every higher power she could think of that Orianna had not harboured the mad notion to corrupt him with red lyrium the way she'd tainted Marcus. Those twisted phylacteries had been horrid enough. How much of the little girl with the tattered clothes and patched dolls had truly been left in Mar'Alenna's firstborn? What would their mother have felt, seeing the ruin and violence that had been wrought between her daughters?

Varric and Cassandra escorted the cart on horseback, their expressions grave. Neither of them spoke much and Shenlira was grateful for the silence that allowed her to calm the surging tides of emotion. By the time they arrived at the camp, she had almost regained composure. Iveras and Deshanna, along with a handful of worried-looking elves, met them at the edge of the grounds. As soon as they saw that someone had been injured, they immediately came to help. Quickly and precisely, a tent was vacated, where both Cullen and Cub were pillowed on padded blankets. The others left quietly then, although they could be heard talking in muted voices to Lithlas outside. While her father saw to Cub, the keeper and Shenlira cleaned Cullen's wounds. As she took account of each cut and bruise, her dampened fury flared up again, a tremble running through the fingers that held the wet linen cloth. Deshanna seemed to sense it and cast her a quick, reassuring glance.

"The sword must have been longer and broader than usual, but the cut is not very deep. He sidestepped this swing at his flank. Fierce _shem_ warrior. It is going to be alright, Shen.", the woman remarked softly. They tried to be cautious as they wiped the blood off his face, yet still Cullen stirred beneath the ministrations with a groan. His eyes opened and searched the surroundings frantically for a moment before they focused on the two women tending him. Then he inhaled a sharp breath and although he instantly struggled to hide it, the rigid line of his jaw betrayed the pain he felt. Tears suddenly stung Shenlira's eyes. She made no attempt to fight them down. By now, she was well beyond caring about dignified appearances. This day, this whole ordeal, fear and fury and uncertainty, had taken a great toll on her frayed senses. Cullen lifted his hand to touch her cheek, brushing away a stray drop of moisture.

"Do I look so terrible that it would make you cry?", he asked, managing somehow to make it sound humorous. Yet the subdued timbre of his voice spoke volumes about his weakened state. Her head jerked in denial and she gave him a shaky smile.

"Not at all, _vhenan._ " It did not fool him, of course.

"You have never been accomplished at lying to people's faces, my love. This is nothing, compared to…", he fell silent when he saw her anxious expression. "It doesn't matter now. The pain… inside is gone. I just feel like I've been trampled by a horse." Deshanna wrapped the bandage around the cut on his arm where Orianna had drawn blood and secured it just as skilfully as any Inquisition healer.

"He bears signs of magical… torture, Shen. Loathsome spellwork. What happened?", the keeper wanted to know, her tone sharp. And so they both recounted the events of this longest night to her while she worked her miracles on Cullen's injuries. When he described the phylactery's creation, Deshanna gave him a deeply revolted look. Shenlira on the other hand turned ghostly white to the point of being transparent. She remembered the dream he'd rescued her from and wondered if this skill in harrowing other's spirits had come from the demon or been inherent to her sister's madness.

"So much violence… _Mir vhenan numines ar abelas_. You did the right thing by ending that deranged creature. I have never heard of anyone keeping a bond with an evil spirit for so long. It must have been with her for… years." Deshanna reached for his face and Cullen couldn't refrain from flinching when he felt the magic current so close, if by some inbred templar sense or the in result to the recent violence, he couldn't say. The keeper went still, looking surprised.

"He… he is not used to our casual ways of healing magic. Templars can sense you do your spells. You merely startled him.", Shenlira's tone was apologetic. Then, to Cullen she added, "Be at ease, Sajnalin. The keeper has three decades of experience in mending broken things. Who do you think put me right when I returned scraped and bruised from a hunt?"

"Indeed, this is child's play compared to the time you came home with your foot twisted all the way around.", Deshanna commented, not bothering to curb the sarcasm. Cullen's eyes widened at Shenlira.

"She is exaggerating! It wasn't that bad.", this in a failing attempt to defend herself. They startled when her father spoke out from behind.

"Not at all, it only took three hours to set the bones, and five weeks of sulking when we forced you to stay at the camp.", he interjected in a tone that was not quite serious.

"That sounds very familiar to me.", Cullen quirked half a smile at her, yet a moment later the keeper's hand moved above and the sharp snap as she set his nose made him let out a shout. Shenlira cringed at the sound. Well, that was quintessentially Deshanna – swift and precise, no argument. The strong body beneath her fingers shuddered, lungs labouring to draw air, but he composed himself after a few moments.

" _Ir abelas, vhenallin_. That had to be done, otherwise it will heal badly and blemish your face for the rest of your days. Now, just to quicken the process a little…", the keeper murmured and proceeded with some sort of healing spell that sent tiny tingling currents over Cullen's skin. When it was done, she nodded, satisfied with her work.

" _Ma serannas…el halani, mirthadra_." Those words, spoken in flawless elven, left everyone around the room staring at him, dumbstruck as though they'd watched him walk out into a busy street completely naked.

"Cullen, you spoke elven!", Shenlira exclaimed in disbelief. She knew he'd studied the language – or what was left of it anyway – mostly for reasons of comprehension, but hearing him speak it was a whole other thing. Oh, this man… That he would take the time to do such an inconsequential, sweet thing, with everything else going on, made her wish fiercely that she could erase the events of the night. Bleach those hurts white, so he'd never have to suffer them.

"And with perfect intonation, no less. Maybe you should keep him, after all.", Iveras remarked, sounding just a little impressed. His daughter quelled him with a frown, yet the corners of Cullen's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Your wolf will pull through, _da'len_. Two broken ribs, and a lot of bruising to his chest, but he's a fighter." Shenlira left Cullen's side for a moment to thank her father and spend a few minutes with Cub. Her brave companion had been thoroughly bandaged up. Now he lay stretched out comfortably on the blankets, his head held straight and dark eyes intent. She gave him a long and rigorous stroking that called forth a series of content, inexplicably smug noises from his throat. It seemed that Deshanna had finished patching Cullen up for now, since she rose and took Shenlira aside.

"Everything is taken care of.", the keeper kept her voice measured. "The visible injuries are not severe, but he needs to rest. He endured pain that might have broken a lesser human. In all confidence, Shen… It saved him from lasting damage to his mind that you arrived when you did." Then she made some subtle sign towards Iveras. "Let us give them some privacy and peace. They both look deliriously exhausted."

Gratitude sealed her throat tight as Shenlira watched the two elves leave to join the others' muffled conversation outside. She kneeled at Cullen's side again, noting that despite his brave countenance, his deep brown eyes were glazed with fatigue. Leaning over, she let her fingers trace the hale side of his face. His lids fell shut, relishing the feathery touch.

"Are you in pain, _vhenan_? Can I bring you anything?", she whispered, concerned.

"No pain anymore… Just an overall discomfort. And relief. You took ten years off my life when you let her attack you unarmed, Lira." Eyes still closed, his palm settled on the back of her hand and pressed it gently against his cheek.

"I know… Forgive me for frightening you. But you can trust that Wolf Brother wouldn't leave me unprotected. I didn't get harmed." Cullen searched her tired features, finding that she looked more dejected than he'd ever seen her.

"Not bodily harmed, maybe. But I can't imagine what you must feel right now… The shock, the immensity of it all must be staggering." To his surprise, Shenlira let out a feeble laugh at those words.

"Oh, that is so like you… You almost get murdered by my insane half-sister and then you worry about how I might feel. You need to rest, Cullen. Everything else can wait." He moved to protest but she stayed adamant. Huddled close to his side, she wrapped one arm protectively around his waist. The soft melody she intoned defeated his struggle to stay awake. It was just some nonsense little hum, but he was fast asleep before she'd gone through it even once.

* * *

The next few days passed in a haze for Cullen, alternating between sleep and waking as he recuperated both from the physical aftermaths and the discomfort that still lingered following Orianna's torture. Magical attacks of this sort could cause damage very quickly, as the keeper explained to him when he grew impatient about his weakness. He hated needing help with the simplest things, although he chided himself for stooping to wounded pride. Shenlira stayed remarkably patient and calm, pouring out constant reassurances that he was getting better each day. She aided him in every way she found and stoically endured his grumbling. But each time Cullen tried to breach the subject of Orianna or her feelings about it, she eluded the issue, just as she eluded being seen while scouting.

Seldom had he experienced her this distant. She seemed detached somehow, beside herself, numb. Cool, like a mountain lake, reflecting the world on its watery mirror. Although she'd never been someone to voice emotions in florid words, Cullen now realized how much of them she had communicated with subtlety, through gestures or looks. A delicate song that had unfolded at the back of his mind, always subconsciously guiding him in understanding her. Suddenly it was muted, and that silence felt like the loss of something precious. It worried him that she would not speak about such a monumental thing. Instead, she went on long hunts during the nights when he slept.

Even more troubling was that for the first time since he had discovered the unique bond they shared, Cullen could neither sense her consciousness nor cross over into her dreams. When he tried, he would encounter a strange mist that blocked everything beyond. He did not need Solas' counsel to know that Shenlira had closed her mind to him, likely to hide whatever was going on inside her. It frightened the wits out of him, yet he didn't feel familiar enough with Deshanna or Iveras to ask them for help. Although Shenlira's behaviour was fond and caring, he felt utterly blind to what happened beneath the surface.

Then, about a week into his recovery, Cullen woke one night from a light sleep. The space next to him was vacant, but the sound of Shenlira's voice drifted over from outside the tent. She was singing as he'd never heard her sing before, a forlorn lament. The words were elven, too fluent and soft for him to understand their meaning, but he did not need to – some things were universal across languages, creeds and cultures, and Cullen recognized a song of mourning when he heard one. Very carefully, he stood and lifted the flap of the tent just enough so he could peek outside. She stood silhouetted against the darkness, looking up to the star-strewn sky above. Something white gleamed in the shadows, wrapped around a branch she held in her hand. The ivory wolf necklace.

He realized then. She grieved for her sister. Maybe not for the woman they had met under these condemnable circumstances, ending in gruesome violence. But for the girl she had once known, a lifetime ago, and how different it all could have been. A happier future forever lost. Helpless sadness bled from her, saturating everything around. _Oh Lira…_ Cullen did not go to her, not just then. He sensed that what she did was too private to share yet, even with him. And at the same time it felt as though Shenlira tried to hide her grief even from herself, expelling it in the middle of the night under the cloak of darkness, like a shameful secret.

* * *

Shortly after this incident, Solas returned to the camp and brought all knowledge he managed to extract from the remnants of the manor. The companionship sat around a comforting brazier of Veilfire, listening to his tale. It had transpired somewhat like this:

After practically being turned out onto the street, Marcus left the templar order for good a few years back, during the Blight. For a time, he eked out a living any way he found, while battling against lyrium withdrawal. The magical mineral had never sat right with him, as some old correspondences from his quarters confirmed. He started losing his mind somewhere between the Wycome circle fire and the decade long hunt for Mar'Alenna. Manifestations of lyrium insanity at that age were rare, but not unheard of, and in Marcus' case it had been fuelled largely by the conflicting emotions that haunted him after his lover's betrayal. At some point, he had to resort to begging for coin in the streets, buying sloppy philtres from some black-market merchant. A pitiful end for one of the best-trained warriors in Thedas. Sadly, such stories weren't that unusual.

It was in this sorry state that Orianna tracked him down in Ostwick. They did not know what she offered him, and likely they never would. Maybe a daughter's devotion, the possibility to serve a better cause than the order that had, to his mind, spit on his loyalty. Maybe just a steady supply of lyrium. But whichever it was, he accepted and, for whatever reason, allowed her to create a phylactery with his blood. Discarded in narrow cells below the manor, the guards had found hollowed-out husks of humans, the bodies looking as though they'd been drained of blood and dried to a crisp. It seemed Marcus and Orianna had recruited many lost templars to their side and then bled them to feed power into others, especially Marcus himself. How many lives they had taken with such repulsive experiments, one could only guess.

Orianna's own story was still more complicated. Over the years of her adolescence, she did acquire skills in the arcane and alchemy. Mad ambition drove her to hone and practice them until her mastery grew to a considerable height. She especially excelled - as stated to Cullen – in enchanting items, preferably small ones, with complicated spells that worked very well it they were tailored to one specific person. Such magic had drawbacks, of course. One needed a measure of knowledge about the person and often a great amount of energy, which she drew from the richest source of power: Blood. This talent was enough to get her by over the years, yet the time and effort necessary for each enchantment made it impossible to reach true success or wealth with her work.

Nobody would ever be able to pinpoint the exact time Jealousy took notice of Orianna's seething hatred towards her sister, on who she blamed every shortcoming in her miserable life. But Solas suspected that it must have been when Orianna was about seventeen. The demon, clever and subtle at first, never tried to possess her directly, but rather kept close to her at all times, whispering so persuasively all the things she longed to hear. Yes, she deserved revenge, for everyone underappreciated her. He praised her beauty, talent and resolve to survive in a world that had cast her out. She should be a queen, with all those who had belittled her on their knees, begging for mercy.

And as the years went by, Jealousy sunk his tendrils into her spirit slowly, patiently, like a tumour growing just a miniscule bit every day. This parasitic growth enabled him to provide her with powers she'd otherwise never have, for example the ability to consciously enter the Fade even though she practiced blood magic on a regular basis. To strengthen their bond even more, Orianna created the hideous painting they had seen at the manor. By mixing her own blood with the paint, she enchanted it to serve as a dwelling for Jealousy, a place where the Veil was thinned out by constant magic – he could reach forth and empower her spells, but the connection worked both ways: It was also much easier for him to prey on her soul.

And not just hers. Solas explained that most likely every templar she had bound to her will had given a part of their life-force to Jealousy, if willingly or not. Those people were shown their heart's greatest desire when they looked upon the painting, which had been the reason for Marcus' fascination with the thing. Cullen wondered what he'd seen in the picture that in reality had been a riot of revolting colours and shapes. Mar'Alenna, perhaps, a version of her that hadn't betrayed him. The strikingly beautiful, mysterious woman he'd loved fiercely. And he, still a proud, pure templar. If everyone bound to Jealousy saw their most ardent wish, what had it looked like to Orianna herself?

However, this festering tie was what led her to new heights of violence and evil, and when she learned that Shenlira had been made Inquisitor, she resolved to put her long-overdue vendetta into motion. Joining Corypheus was the most natural choice to begin with that plan, and her association to him benefitted her with resources, power and underlings. Solas and Leliana had found Venatori spellbooks, red templar supplies and artefacts of all kinds in Orianna's study, or otherwise littered all over the cavern she'd used as hear base of operations.

Her great masterplan failed, though, when Shenlira survived the Architect and destroyed him after Cullen journeyed her nightmare, guided by Solas and Cole. Having cost Corypheus a powerful demon ally, she lost the darkspawn magister's favour and was sent back to Wycome, reeling, to recruit more red templar and rebel mages. Resourceful as she was, Orianna had a backup plan: Lure her sister to Wycome. Take Cullen, who would certainly be travelling with her, as a hostage. Then, merge with Jealousy and kill them all. She was oblivious to the fact that the demon never intended to let her survive the transformation. After all, he had not patiently prepared her as a vessel and paved the way for his transcendence just so he would have to share it in the end. Jealousy does not share. It takes selfishly that which it never had. Entrusting herself so fully to the demon that she forgot this most important of lessons had been her downfall in the end.

Of course, it had not been her only mistake – she had underestimated all the uniquely skilled minds in the Inquisition's inner circle, and most of all the relationship between Cullen and Shenlira. Two people who were prepared to do anything for each other. Walk through treacherous nightmare, burning inferno, crushing darkness. And how could she not? To a person who had never experienced a bond untainted, never known love given unconditionally, how could the way she'd been thwarted by such a thing make sense to her? If she had understood it at all, she might never have dared to provoke that tremendous power. She would never have tried to tear such a strong connection apart.

Shenlira listened to the account of her sister's decline from beginning to end, keeping a grim silence. While the others discussed the sad tale, she refrained from commenting on it and instead quietly excused herself. Cullen watched her return to the tent, her steps trailed by Cub who had until then sat with them at the fire.

"You seem troubled, Sajnalin.", Solas remarked, calling on his attention. The rest of their party was still in profound conversation, and so Cullen turned to the mage. He kept his voice low as he spoke.

"I am. Shenlira might wear a calm composure on the outside, but I think she is hiding how deeply all of this affected her. She refuses to speak of it to me, and I can't reach her. Neither with words nor… in her dreams." Solas nodded solemnly.

"I see… You are right. Her spirit is… hushed. Turned to the inside. I can imagine that dealing with such an event could drive weak minds insane. When we learned that you were taken, she went livid. I have never seen _Da'Assan_ like that. I feared that using the Anchor in such a fury might destroy us all, but she kept her focus. Maybe she needs this distance for the emotions to settle. I am certain she will speak to you in time, my friend.", he reassured Cullen, who heaved a sigh and hoped those words would prove to be true.

"Thank you for your kindness, Wolf Brother. And all your help… You protected her when I could not. I will always be grateful for that." His honest gratitude made Solas smile, yet that mysterious gaze was coloured with a sadness Cullen could not quite understand. Then, he remembered something. "I wanted to ask the keeper, but I worried it might be disrespectful… Maybe you can tell me. How do the Dalish honour their dead?"

"Ah, yes, the clans are not so forthcoming about such intimate rites. As far as I know, humans of the Andastrian creed cremate their dead?", Solas began, to which Cullen nodded. Almost everywhere in Thedas where the Chantry was present, with the exception of Nevarra, the ritual of burning the deceased served both a symbolic purpose and pre-empted any possibility of demonic possession or use of blood magic on the corpse. Even if Shenlira had wanted it otherwise, Orianna's remains had to be burned, considering her affinity to demons. "The Dalish do not burn their dead. They are buried in the ground with traditional items dedicated to the gods they revere. An oak staff, symbolizing Falon'Din, the god of death. A cedar branch, to chase away Fear and Deceit. But the most important thing does not relate to deities, but rather to a naturalistic belief: They plant an ancestor tree over the burial ground, so the body beneath would aid its growth. It stands as a testament that both the elves as a whole and their deceased continue on.", the elf explained.

"Settling into the delicate circle of life.", Cullen said, more to himself, remembering what Shenlira had told him once. Yet Solas nodded thoughtfully all the same.

* * *

Not much later, Leliana arrived at the camp, thus completing their party. She had stayed behind to arrange political matters and see after Light-Foot, who was recovering from the lung disease he'd caught during the confinement in the alchemist's cellar. It seemed that another mystery in Wycome had been solved by the Inquisition, since the poisoned wells Varric had heard the citizens speak about had contained residues of red lyrium. Most likely spoilage from Orianna's experiments with the templars, or even planted there deliberately by her to frame clan Lavellan and incite the folk against the elves. After receiving several tokens of respect and the mayor's undying thanks that they had thwarted the evil witch, Leliana had organised their departure from Wycome back to Skyhold. A messenger had informed her that Cullen would be fit to travel in a matter of days, and the merchant vessel agreed to take them back on their next delivery run.

Another thing Leliana brought with her was a small, silver urn that held Orianna's ashes. Shenlira received it with an unsettled expression, as though being handed such an object was utterly macabre. It probably felt like that to her. Orianna had been human, yet they were kin nevertheless, and Cullen realized that the funeral rites for Mar'Alenna could not have been carried out in the traditional way, since there hadn't been anything left to bury. Now another of her blood had left this world without properly being laid to rest. Shenlira took the urn to the tent and left it in some shadowed corner, avoiding to set eyes on it all day.

Yet, the next morning, Cullen awoke before dawn to a soft scuffling noise. Shadows shrouded the room in dimness, but he could make out her silhouette as she moved stealthily to the door flap and slipped outside. This time, he decided to follow her. Cub, curled up on blankets in his corner, flicked one vaguely interested ear at him while he got dressed in the semi-darkness, but the wolf made no move to pursue either of them. Cullen left the tent just as Shenlira rounded a bend on a narrow trail and disappeared behind a tall bush. It was so early yet that nobody seemed to be awake, a peaceful silence blanketing the entire camp in the soft grey light. Since Shenlira had not taken a horse, Cullen had no issues following her with wide steps through the underbrush and trees adjacent to the settlement. He kept a safe distance as not to alert her to his company, but she seemed too distracted to notice it anyway. After half an hour down the winding forest path, they came to a tiny clearing. A mossy stone stood in the middle of a circle of aspens, their white trunks in contrast to the rich spring crowns. At the far end, Cullen could see the river rush by beneath a slope. The sight was strangely soothing, a little natural sanctuary that emanated a tranquil aura. Time seemed to stand still in this place, untouched by the chaotic change of civilization. _Man will never rule here_ , he thought. _We just borrow its riches and paths, a small measure of its vitality_. It felt pleasantly humbling. Shenlira halted and he sensed her hesitation as she shifted on the spot. One arm wrapped around the silver urn and the branch with the wolf carving held in her hand, she seemed at a loss now that she had arrived. Cullen understood why she'd come in the first place.

"You should bury her here.", he said in a slightly raised voice to announce his presence. Shenlira whirled around, eyes wide in shock. She really hadn't heard him coming. Cullen took the time she needed to compose herself as an opportunity to walk over as he went on. "You know I'm a light sleeper, Lira. Since you avoid any honest question about your welfare, a man has to resort to dishonest ways." The rebuke was gentle, but her gaze slid away from his and she blushed even so, ashamed. A little of the feebleness caused by Orianna's attack still lingered and Cullen had to sit down on the moss-covered rock from the slight burn in his muscles, motioning her to join his side. She hesitated only for a heartbeat, grey eyes anxious.

"I should have known that barely anything escapes your notice, Sajnalin.", she sighed and her shoulders drooped in a discouraged manner. "Forgive me that I acted so strangely these days. I thought I had come a long way from the awkward, solitary hunter who liked the company of animals better than people's. But it seems I still revert to that detachment when bad things happen. When I saw that crystal spike at your throat… I have never been so terrified in my whole life. Not when I dangled above the wolves, or while fighting demons, not even in the Architect's nightmare." As she spoke, Shenlira felt his arm wrap around her to pull her against him, like an unfailing anchor. At the same time, he let a part of his strength flow through that touch. The heaviness pressing on her ribcage lessened and the jumbled thoughts righted themselves, words coming more easily. "I had a first-hand taste now of why you insisted I stay at the keep after the attack. And why you were so angry when I did not heed you. How can anyone ever get used to a fear like that?" To her astonishment, Cullen smiled faintly.

"You don't. You get better at keeping it at bay, over time. It's not constantly this bad, and one has to admit that we walk into life-threatening encounters much more often than the average couple.", he ventured a jest and was delighted when the corners of her mouth lifted. Yet sadly her smile did not come to be, fading in reaction to the next question. "But that is not the reason you came here today, is it?" Shenlira turned the urn in both hands, the expression on her pale profile unreadable.

"I find myself unable to decide if what I feel is right or wrong… It's my mother's dilemma all over again. I do not want to mourn Orianna… I'm not even sure she deserves my grief after everything she has done. But when have feelings ever asked for permission? I look at this and I see a girl who wanted bright ribbons and to come home with us. And also a woman who hated me with an intensity I cannot even imagine. It was woven into her very soul, just like Jealousy, and I almost lost you because of it. There is no forgiveness I can grant her. My conscience walks in circles… Was there any part of my sister that was still untainted when she died? Does her spirit deserve to wander the Beyond forever, all alone and restless?" Those words sounded cautious, as though she had thought them through countless times in her mind. Her eyes wandered over the beautiful pattern engraved in the urn's surface. Cullen knew she was waiting avidly for his answer.

"I wonder if either of us has seen enough of the world to know right or wrong in this situation, my love. Maybe there is no absolute answer.", he began softly, brushing some strands of her open hair over her shoulder. They whispered, smooth as silk along the tips of his fingers. The gesture made Shenlira glance at him tentatively from the corner of her eye. "The Maker teaches us that all life is hardship, not to be taken for granted. Never should we squander moments of joy, for seldom do we receive the kindness we might deserve. But he also tells us not to shun those children who lose their way along this difficult path. Orianna was such a lost child. You should not feel ashamed about grieving for the tragic course her life has taken. Maybe, if you lay her to rest here, beneath the wide sky, among all these living things… she will find peace, wherever she is now. And just as importantly, it will put your mind at ease, give you closure. Do you remember? With this line I'll mark my past…"

"As a symbol of beginning.", she completed the line well-known to both of them.

And so, Shenlira buried the remains of her sister on the small glade overlooking _Ilen'shal_ , the Silver Ribbon river, as the elves called it. She planted a tiny aspen sapling over the burial ground and laid the wolf carving beneath the roots before covering them with earth.

"Enough light and fresh water to grow strong. And you'll be in good company. Farewell, _esal'adahl_.", she whispered to the little plant. Then, she straightened and turned to join Cullen, who stood waiting respectfully at the edge of the clearing.

"Did it feel right?", he queried, to which Shenlira bobbed a small nod and gave him a smile. He felt a rush of victory, for that small gesture embodied hope in its simplest form. It would be alright. The hurts were still fresh and raw, but they had started mending. She seemed to hover a little, not yet wishing to go back towards the camp.

"You know… If we put aside the horrid tale this visit has been, seeing my family and friends again was really wonderful. And there is another benefit." Morning sunlight brought back some of her old playfulness in the look she flashed him. Her hand went to her pockets and pulled out a long, thin chain. A silvery pendant dangled from it, which Shenlira now set into Cullen's open palm. The trinket was flat and almost weightless, carved from a material he had never encountered before, somehow both wood and metal: A lion's head, unadorned and simple, yet its proud mane and determined gaze were uncannily expressive. The style reminded him of the drawings of Sajnalin in the book of fables he had once borrowed from Solas. After staring at it for a good while speechlessly, Cullen looked up and found Shenlira's apprehensive gaze.

"It's made from ironbark. Only the Dalish know how to craft it. I know it feels oddly light, but ironbark is stronger than steel, and much more enduring. It will last forever. And… I have never heard of a Dalish elf giving such a present to someone outside their own clan. I wanted to be the first. It's not too gaudy, right? I told the woodworker to keep it simple. Of course, if you don't like it, we can…", she babbled nervously, disconcerted by the prolonged silence. But he hushed her by lifting a hand to cover her mouth.

"This is the first gift I have gotten since I was a child. Let me savour the moment a little, Lira. It's perfect.", Cullen whispered, his eyes fond as they roamed over her features, drinking in her beauty hungrily for an infinite moment. Shenlira felt breathless under that thorough gaze, her heart suddenly determined to beat itself in some kind of race. He bent over so she could secure the chain around his neck. She startled momentarily when his lips found hers in a long, sweet kiss that spread a glowing warmth inside her chest. _Let this never change. Let me have this for all my life_ , a voice from deep within whispered.

"I love you.", she simply said as he pulled away, face glowing with his favourite smile. "If all of this has made me realize one thing, it's that I will fight even harder to stop Corypheus. For you, and everyone who supported me, a savage little elf from the woods with a shady past."

"That savage elf made a much too serious templar fall for her hopelessly. And some poor, unsuspecting recruits too, I suppose…", Cullen's eyes glittered with amusement.

"Oh, that reminds me – I haven't told you how I deceived poor young Marten to lose my roan! I have to apologize to him when we return to Skyhold.", Shenlira confessed ruefully. He kept one arm around her shoulders as they turned towards the camp.

"Let's go home then. I'm sure everyone is frantic to have their Inquisitor back, and I long to sleep in a proper bed again." This made her laugh, the first hearty one since the dire incidents of the past weeks.

"I see, even the most taciturn warrior gets used to a little luxury.", she commented whimsically, before adding in a sober tone, "But you're right, _vhenan_. I will be glad to return too. We have been away for too long already."

Side by side, they walked along the winding path. They had fretted and quarrelled, loved and battled, found passion and peace in each other's presence. However horrible the experience of Orianna's downfall had been, it had only forged them even closer together, until their separate hearts had started beating as one. Attuned, committed that neither would let the things they held dear come to harm. If by raising a steadfast shield or aiming the glinting tip of an arrow, it was the same devotion to protect. That promise felt like flying, like being invincible, like an inevitable dawn, new and arresting and incandescent. And what could hope to stand against such a force?


	19. XIX Epilogue - Vows

**_WARNING: Major SPOILERS to Trespasser._**

 _This is the Epilogue to Resolution and it takes place at the end of Trespasser. I really am a hopeless romantic. I wrote this VERY fluffy epilogue because I wanted to give the characters a genuine happy ending. They deserved it after all they went through. You know those hint-y, short epilogues that leave you hanging a little? Well, me too, and in my own story, I wanted none of that. This may be a fluffy slap to the face, but I pull this out whenever I feel depressed or bad or sick, or sometimes just when I need a smile. At the end of this chapter, I included the translations for all Dalish phrases used during the story._  
 _Have fun!_

* * *

 **XIX. Epilogue: Vows**

 _With golden string  
Our universe was clothed in light.  
Pulling at the seams,  
Our once barren world now brims with life,  
That we may fall in love  
Every time we open up our eyes.  
I guess space and time,  
Takes violent things, angry things  
And makes them kind.  
Excerpt from the song 'Sun'_

* * *

The ceiling was too bright. Shenlira opened her eyes and was momentarily dazzled by the golden fractures of light that bounced from its ornaments. She had never really gotten used to the pomp of the crystal chandeliers, the velvet-covered walls or the rampant luxury of the furniture that made up most of the Winter Palace. But that they might make her dizzy seemed unusual, she pondered while she assessed the situation. They had brought her to a solar in the guest wing, plush settees covered in fine silk and filigreed glass cabinets arranged tastefully around the room. Dorian sat beside her, his expression one of concentration as he let his hand hover over her arm. The sight of it was shocking.

Discoloured, uneven skin covered the whole hand and ran all the way up to the elbow, where once it had been smooth and unmarred. An ugly burn mark, similar to the one on her back. Yet the ridges were finer, like dark veins that stood in relief to the lighter, waxy ones. It hurt, but not as badly as it should have. Not a novice to this type of injury, Shenlira still remembered the wrecking pain after the column had fallen on her back. Something intruded on her thoughts then. The Anchor… Gone. She felt oddly bereft, if from the missing magical current that had been ever-present for nearly three years or from some other, deeper loss, she could not say. A hazy memory stirred… He'd removed it, before it could spread out of control and kill her…

The Inquisition healer Keeley stood to Dorian's right, readying bandages by coating them with some sort of salve. The sharp, herbal smell was so intense, an instant nausea rose from Shenlira's stomach and she had to fight down the sudden urge to retch. Still, a sound of displeasure built in her throat and alerted Dorian that she was awake.

"With us again, sleeping beauty?", he asked, interrupted by a scuffling noise and another, more anxious voice.

"She's awake?", Cullen wanted to know as he stepped swiftly to the repurposed sofa she lay on. The light of the chandelier bathed his hair and features in a golden light, yet his face tightened with worry. Still, she was, as so often, astounded what a good job Keeper Deshanna had done on him by setting and healing his broken nose. The damage was almost unnoticeable. Except to someone who knew him as well as she did. "Lira… How are you feeling?", he dropped his voice a little, one hand settling lightly on her healthy arm.

"It hurts… But I think I'm alright, I…", she began while they helped her up into a sitting position. Cullen regarded her cautiously.

"You came through the Eluvian with your hand looking like that, and then you simply fell unconscious. It worried me sick, you were never one for fainting…", he lowered to his haunches beside her and gave Dorian some space so he could continue his examination. The injured arm burned when she readjusted it, eliciting a small gasp followed by a cringe, which Cullen noted with an unforgiving expression. It was then that the memory of her conversation with Solas hit her in full force. Just like the crystal spires of the elves had tumbled and fallen to ruin when he'd created the Veil, the enormity of it all crashed down on Shenlira now. She began hyperventilating and her whole body suddenly trembled violently as though shaken by a fit. Cullen regretted bringing the issue up at once, for the sorrow and betrayal in her eyes hit him with a gut-punching force.

"Wolf Brother… He lied to us all this time. He's never been an apostate mage who simply knew the Fade better than most. He only helped us because… he gave the orb to Corypheus in the hope that it might somehow lead to unlocking its powers, so he could tear down the Veil. That was his true goal. It still is… Lies, all these lies and deceptions! He was always Fen'Harel. Dread Wolf.", she explained in a voice that was not quite her own, the words disjointed between the fractured breaths. No tears gathered in the silver depths of her eyes. They were dry.

Cullen could sense her distress reach a peak, but at the same time she hammered it down viciously, like a smith forging impenetrable armour. Already she was building a wall between herself and the man she'd thought to be her closest friend, her most trusted companion, locking all feelings that rode with that loss away. He knew, although she rarely spoke it out aloud, that Shenlira had hoped Solas would return one day. Shortly after Corypheus' defeat he vanished, and back then her optimism had been enthusiastic, almost naïve.

As the months passed and they heard nothing about him, she became quiet and brooding whenever the issue was raised, while that hope thinned out to a mere thread, became laced with grudge and doubt. Now that she grasped the full extent of his betrayal, she reverted to the only way she knew to deal with such a heart-breaking truth: Chain it down in some secret, unseen corner, silence it, so it might stop squeezing her insides so tightly that it hurt. Cullen moved to speak, but Dorian pre-empted him, his tone serious for once.

"Hush now, Shen. Breathe evenly for me, please. It will do you no good to have an anxiety attack now. It might make your injury worse." Then, with a pointed sideways glance at Cullen, he added, "I appreciate your… Hmmm… Supervision, Commander, but I would ask you to step outside while I attempt a healing spell on the burns and we bandage the wound." Cullen frowned at him.

"Why?", he demanded reluctantly, which made Dorian sigh in an exasperated manner.

"Because I cannot work when you are standing behind me, breathing fire down my neck in the perfect impersonation of an irritating dragon. Also, and I cannot stress this enough, because I am the _healer_ and you are… what? Right. A _visitor._ ", the mage retorted sardonically. Cullen let out an indignant huff, but in the end, he relented and gave Shenlira a gentle kiss to the top of her head, stroking her back in a gesture of reassurance. When the ornamented door had closed behind him, Dorian sought her gaze and held it for a long moment.

"He's gone. You can let it out now, if you like." The words were uncharacteristically gentle.

"What?", Shenlira asked, confused. His expressive eyes assessed her with concern.

"I know you a little by now, you know. When something truly painful happens to you, you turn it inward. That way you deal with it and avoid people worrying over you, especially our dear, overprotective Commander. But this is something that needs to come out, Shenlira.", Dorian leaned over her arm again as he added in a self-deprecating tone, "If even a universally deflecting person like Yours Truly tells you that, you should listen. I'm going to work quietly on this now and we'll bandage it for you. We need to concentrate, so feel free to have a good cry while no one's looking."

Shenlira wanted to tell him that what Solas had done wasn't worth crying over, but the tears were already coming and once they started, there was no stopping them. She had never wept that way before. Without sobs or shallow breaths, quietly, the thick drops simply flowing down her cheeks to fall to her lap while she stared into the distance. Many emotions were embedded in them as they went, sadness and bitter disappointment, regretful anger and a keening sort of loss, as though some part of her had gone forever missing.

The memories of the Wolf Brother who had guided her in dreams and spent countless hours telling her stories of spirits and ruins, of magic without limits and cities never-ending… The times he had listened to her songs and joined in with a slight smile curving his lips. _Forests I Walk, Shining Roads_ , that had been his favourite… And the many counsels he had given her, always so measured and calm, her brother in spirit if not in blood. His help in the nightmare, and with Orianna… _We hunted together._ Had any of it been true at all? _I will never forgive you, bastard. Your misguided conviction would see us all destroyed, if it could only restore the old world you once knew_. Shenlira began pulling those memories from her mind as a fisherman pulls fish from a net. She set them free, back into the depths of the sea. It wasn't enough. There were too many of them. But at least it hurt a bit less with every tear that fell and every memory she let go.

Dorian did as he'd explained, he mended the mark Solas had left behind with fluent words and a shower of tickling sparks as he cast the spell. The pain eased a little and the skin did not look that raw anymore. But it would always be there as a reminder that not every bond in life ended in harmony for all time. Some just ended in a whole lot of hurt. _Stop this self-pitying nonsense at once_ , some small voice of her conscience snapped acerbically. Shenlira wiped her eyes with an annoyed sniff. Enough weeping.

"You know… I would like to roast that bastard for what he did to you, how he played us all for fools. But… He could have taken off your whole arm and be done with it. Yet he tried to preserve as much function as possible when he removed the Anchor.", Dorian noted grudgingly. "You might never again hold a draw for minutes on end, and you really shouldn't overdo it anyway. The wound has weakened the muscles and skin extensively. But at least you will be able to use the hand and still shoot a bow, to some extent."

"No more Leaping Arrow." Feeling miserable and bleak at that thought, Shenlira watched them wrap the bandages around her arm meticulously. This time, the smell hit her harder and she cringed from the revolting odour. Her nose wrinkled and inevitably she gagged, turning her head away. Keeley stopped in the middle of adjusting the stinking strips and asked her what was wrong.

"Can we… can we use some other herbs? The smell is disgusting… It makes my stomach turn… What's in there?", she managed between clenched teeth, trying hard not to inhale any of it. Dorian and Keeley exchanged a puzzled look.

"My lady, I'm sure I don't know what you mean. There is mint and ginger in it, cloves and sage against infection. Those herbs all smell pleasant – goats even like to lick the ointment.", said Keeley with a frown. The explanation baffled Shenlira – she was familiar with those individual herbs and their scent should indeed have been nice. Only it wasn't. They wrapped fresh, dry linens around the salve-coated ones to finish the bandage. That muffled the stench a little and she dared to take a cautious breath.

"Maybe I'm getting sick… I have felt nauseated all through this visit and even before, for weeks. First, I thought it might be the whole tension the Exalted Council put on the Inquisition, I was so worried about how we would be received… It's really the worst when I wake up. Maybe I'm just prone to nausea. Did you know I have terrible seasickness…?", her words trailed away distractedly and she didn't notice Keeley throwing a meaningful look at Dorian, who cleared his throat.

"When did you last… how do I put this delicately? When did you have female… No, I can't do it. Keeley?", the mage turned to the healer eagerly, who rolled her eyes at his awkward fumbling.

"When did you last have your courses?", she then asked without preamble. Shenlira's eyes went wide.

"That's a… very personal question. I guess… back when we visited Redcliffe at Bloomingtide?" The healer merely stared at her.

"That was ten weeks ago.", Dorian pointed out. Shenlira shrugged, still oblivious.

"But that happens sometimes, doesn't it? When things are particularly stressing or…", she began. Keeley interrupted her.

"Lie back, please.", she instructed, and then she did something extremely embarrassing and… private that made Shenlira blush to the roots of her hair. When she was done, Keeley nodded towards Dorian, who had turned his back for reasons of decency. They couldn't know – much less understand – that Shenlira had been raised by a single father most of her life – a man who'd made a wide berth around every remotely awkward female issue, leaving her positively inexperienced in such matters. Therefore, she now surveyed the two of them with knitted brows.

"Why are you looking at me so strangely? Is something wrong? Am I sick?", she wanted to know, anxious about their odd expressions.

"No. But I would like to impart some serious advice on you, my lady. You should lay off the fighting for a good while. Preferably forever.", Keeley regarded her imploringly.

"Forever? Why on earth-" This was the point where Dorian didn't seem able to hold it in anymore.

"Because you have a person growing inside of you. You're expecting a child.", he blurted out. Shenlira's perplexed expression vanished as though someone had wiped a surface clean, turning utterly blank for lingering moment. A flurry of reactions crossed her heart-shaped face, in quick succession and much too fast to name them all. But then it settled into a gentle smile and she suddenly seemed to glow from the inside out, like a buoyant little flame _. A child… Could it really be_? The image of a perfect miniature Cullen flashed in her mind, with a headful of golden locks and wide tawny eyes. It flooded her with a joy that exiled all sadness, illuminating the gloom holding her captive before. She found it almost impossible to sit still instead of running to him, of trumpeting this incredible news out into the world. _No, first the Inquisition's future has to be dealt with_ , she thought with more than a measure of regret. Uncertainty had plagued her about that decision, but now… It seemed absurdly easy.

"Are you sure?", her voice was barely a whisper. Keeley nodded in encouragement, pleased about her reaction. Dorian wore a look of distinct amusement.

"As sure as can be at this stage. I wonder if you would have ever noticed it at all. Sometimes you're so worldly innocent, I can't help but think you have been raised in an ivory tower." He grinned, but the comradely banter didn't rattle her one bit. She just kept smiling serenely.

"Don't act all high and mighty, Dorian.", Shenlira chided him humorously. "Our People are still quite different from humans. We… children are not that numerous, and even rarer between humans and elves. I never thought that… It changes so much…" Silence fell and Dorian sensed that she paid no real attention to him anymore. It was more as though she listened to something deep within, her eyes unfocused. A quiet happiness still softened her features. He wondered if that peculiar expression was the often referred-to radiance of a becoming mother.

* * *

Shenlira had been standing on the wide balcony for almost an hour now, looking out over the Winter Palace gardens. The peculiar, prolonged stillness had begun to trouble Cullen. When she was in a mood like this, quiet and introverted, he still had a hard time dealing with it. As soon as Shenlira had felt rested enough, she'd called the Exalted Council and calmly explained to the envoys of Ferelden and Orleis that the Inquisition would be disbanded. Although that possibility had often been discussed in the inner circle and between the two of them, Cullen was baffled that in the end she'd done it so smoothly. Of course as Inquisitor, the decision was hers to make – yet in the weeks before the Conclave she'd seemed plagued by uncertainty, at odds with herself. He wondered what changed her mind, especially regarding the incident with Fen'Harel and his future plans. Somehow, a part of him had expected Shenlira to keep the Inquisition going in order to stop Solas' dangerous ambition. During the Conclave, her behaviour had struck him as odd… Several times while the discussions how to proceed had unfolded, she'd regarded him with a strange smile on her lips, a kind he had not seen her wear before. As though she knew herself to be the sole keeper of a vital secret, but could barely keep it from rolling off her tongue.

"You should talk to her.", Cassandra's voice roused him from his musings. Her Most Holy, as the faithful called her now, had taken off the uncomfortable priestess hat and ruffled her short black hair in an irritated fashion. Cullen doubted he'd ever get used to the sight of her in chantry robes. To him, she would always be an indomitable warrior whose faith had pulled through every hardship she'd encountered. Although Divine Victoria frowned on archconservative ways and appeared less than comfortable with the formalities of her new position, she'd already proven herself to be a just and benign divine. Cullen suspected that she would go far in the future.

"I know I should. What I'm still pondering is what to say. She's in a… difficult state now, Sandra. Losing her faith and her closest friend in one day, everything she thought she knew about her people's past… It must feel like solid ground has been swept from beneath your feet all of a sudden.", Cullen said regretfully. "I'm not sure if anything that I say can change that, much less make it right again. She was so composed when she told the envoys about the disbanding. For three years I have been by her side. But when she is like this, I still don't know what goes on in that head." Cassandra sighed and patted him on the shoulder in a heartening sort of way.

"It's strange how our fates play out, my friend. If you told me three years ago that I would be the next Divine, I would have laughed in your face. And you… I don't think you expected to find again what you have lost along the difficult path that lies behind you. When we met back in Kirkwall, you seemed as though you sought for true purpose in your life. You didn't know how to define yourself outside the order's boundaries.", she mused, glad that Cullen smiled faintly at her words.

"I found more than what I lost." His voice was steady and sure as he looked at Shenlira's silhouette in the evening light. Turning to Cassandra again, he added, "I like who I am now. Recruiting me to the Inquisition might have been the best idea you have ever had. I never thanked you for that, Sandra." The Divine herself looked stunned when he took a slight step back and bowed deeply before her in a gesture of honest gratitude. She cleared her throat.

"Don't get sentimental on me, Cullen.", this in a murmur that sounded distinctly embarrassed. More soberly, she asked, "How will you go on? Do you have plans?" An excited glitter flashed in his eyes, something that spoke of how much he had changed these last years. The future did not frighten him any longer. He looked forward to it.

"There are so many possibilities now… Having those choices takes time to get used to. But I have some immediate plans. I hope that you can spare a week or two more here at Halamshiral, Your Most Holy. There might be a ceremony that needs your attention…", with those meaningful words, he left Cassandra standing there, awestruck, as he walked away from the guardrail above the ballroom towards the balcony doors.

Shenlira turned as he approached, the aura of affectionate warmth cloaking her so tangible, she practically burned with it. She shifted a little on the spot, as though some restless energy wouldn't allow her to keep still.

"Sajnalin.", his beloved greeted him fondly by the Las'Amelin she'd given him years ago. Cullen had always liked that name, especially the sing-song intonation of the elven tongue when Shenlira spoke it. Although most people did not cross personal boundaries by calling him such, he knew they often referred to him as the 'Lion of the South', supposedly a title originated from the name of Sajnalin. On many occasions, the power of that name had manifested to help him do marvellous, impossible feats.

"Has the scandalous news of my decision spread to set the world aflame by now?", Shenlira queried further, sounding both tired and amused. Her left arm rested in a sling just below her chest, thoroughly bandaged. The linen strips seemed to emit a faint scent of mint and ginger… sage, maybe? It was pleasant, yet he ached inside at the memory of the scars that now flawed her porcelain skin. Dorian had urged him to watch for signs of infection, a danger of all burn marks. The mage had also warned Cullen not to let her overtax herself. The extraction of the Anchor left the hand weakened, possibly forever. He felt saddened by the thought that he might never again see her shoot a bow with such nimble grace as before.

"Is it so bad that it puts a frown on your noble brow?", Shenlira asked when he hadn't answered for a while. Cullen apologized, gathering his thoughts.

"Maybe not scandalized, but people are quite shocked… Many have served in the Inquisition with keen resolve, taking the chance to be part of something that truly changed things. They found a home with us… I think they are simply… depressed that they have to leave now. Can you believe that two of my captains teared up and begged me to let them stay?", he told her, shaking his head. Shenlira regarded him, open-mouthed.

"No, that didn't happen. You're jesting."

"I wish I was. Having grown men hug me and plead not to leave them without my command… That was disconcerting.", he added further. Mirth danced in her eyes, before she grew serious again.

"And what do you think about my decision to disband the Inquisition you have dedicated yourself to, Sajnalin?", she asked, sounding solemn. Cullen pondered her question carefully.

"It has always been your prerogative to make that decision, someday, and I would have respected it no matter what. I hope you know that, Lira.", he began. "I feel strangely torn… Yes, I have dedicated myself to this cause and built many lasting memories, found purpose in my work. Looking back at what we achieved fills me with pride. Yet…", he fell silent for a moment and she felt his fingers close around her uninjured hand, thumb stroking over the warm skin lightly.

"We were fighting to bring peace to a sundered land. And a considerable part of me fought so someday, we could enjoy to live quietly, no heavy duties burdening us. Just you and me." As he said this, her lips conjured his favourite smile, the magical one he'd fallen in love with on a sun-kissed winter morning at a time when he'd given up hope about ever stumbling upon such a soul-changing attachment. It still managed to quicken his heart. For all he knew, she could have been standing there holding Nimhue by the reins, shyly asking him to call her by her first name. And at the same time, a lively delight now flashed across the silver of her eyes, making him wonder if she might have been thinking about the exact same thing. Or maybe not? It was odd… Cullen had the feeling that he was missing some crucial information, but then she cleared her throat and turned towards the gardens below.

"I felt the same way as you when I mulled over how I want the Inquisition to continue. One reason why I disbanded it was that I feared what we would become with our major goal achieved and relative stability restored. There is the matter of Fen'Harel… But I do not trust myself with leading the Inquisition against him. It's too personal for me. I might make horrible, dangerous decisions based on clouded judgement and corrupt this honourable thing we created. No, it's better this way." Shenlira gave a drawn-out sigh and her lids fluttered shut momentarily. Cullen's hand came around her shoulder. The touch made her go motionless and quiet, as it always had. _The steadiness to my fluctuation_ , her heart whispered.

"The Veil has stood for well over thousand years. He won't tear it down in a week, a year, decades or – Maker willing – not ever. It's not a thing someone does before an afternoon nap on a lazy day. We have friends in the highest places of three nations. Even without the Inquisition, we could still stop him.", he tried to encourage her, suspecting that she worried about their now weakened position, created by her choice. But Shenlira shook her head and when she faced him again, her features lost all austerity, melted away by tenderness.

"Someone will stop him, I'm sure. But not you and I, _vhenan_." A look of blank astonishment came to his handsome face and she could not suppress her amusement. "The second and much bigger reason to disband the Inquisition was that a very important task will soon need our attention. It is an all or nothing sort of thing, and we can't afford for our devotions to be divided." Those cryptic words only puzzled him further, making him frown and rack his brain as he tried to remember her speaking about such a task before today.

"What do you mean? What's this important task?", he wanted to know, anxious now. Shenlira fumbled with the loose end of a bandage at her elbow.

"It's not a task per se, it's more… a person. Or rather both. But neither right now – it will be, though.", she stopped rambling and muttered a curse under her breath. "Blast, I had it all planned, but I'm so excited I'm going to burst if I don't tell you know. Come here." And suddenly she reached for the silver chain that held the ironbark charm she'd gifted him with and pulled until he bent close enough so she could whisper into his ear. "You are going to be a father, Cullen."

Shenlira sensed him gasp and go completely still, as if he was not sure he had heard right. The next she knew, his hands encircled her face and he was raining gentle, tiny kisses everywhere his lips reached – her cheeks, her blinking eyelids, her smooth brow, until they found her laughing mouth. Her chest suddenly seemed too tight. She felt worshipped, cherished beyond measure, and for a long moment even breathing became impossible under that ardent onslaught. He made no attempt to contain his exhilaration. Boundless joy radiated from him like a blazing sun at its zenith, and when he pulled back, he was beaming in a way that dazzled her.

"Andraste's mercy, please don't be joking with me, woman… You always said there was little chance… Oh Lira, are you sure? Since when do you know? Should you be standing out here in the chill? And your arm –", it was the closest to a babble Shenlira had ever heard him get, and she reined Cullen in gently by lifting her hand to his lips.

"Hush, silly man. You're making my head spin with all the questions. Slow down… One after another.", she crooned and sensed the shudder as he tried and failed to curb his excitement. "I only realized it today myself, after a very awkward talk with the healer. Keeley assured me it's quite certain by now. I told you it was rare, but that doesn't mean it's impossible. And well, you have to admit, we weren't being careful or even remotely restrained."

"No, we weren't.", he grinned widely at her. It made him look like a young man without a care in the world, a boyish sort of wonder sparkling in those deep eyes. Then, out of nowhere, his arms closed around her and she lost solid ground beneath her feet when Cullen lifted her high into the air. She let out a startled sound of surprise, stomach swooping, but he merely laughed.

"I love you.", he said softly as he set her down again after a giddy spin. His voice trembled. "The joy just now… There are no words."

" _Ar lath ma, vhenan_. Seeing you so happy… I had hoped, of course, but I am assured now." Cullen tilted his head, considering her with a long, thorough gaze. _What was the man up to now?_

"I have one more question. Not even a question, really, more of a request, in light of recent things." Her eyebrows shot upward, intrigued.

"What could that be?", she wondered curiously. This, time, it was Cullen who leaned in to whisper at her pointed ear.

"Marry me."

* * *

Both would have been perfectly content with a quiet ceremony that only involved the two of them and a Chantry official - Mother Giselle or maybe Cassandra, if she could spare the time. But as soon as Cullen broke the news to her, the Divine herself announced this would be cause for celebration, at least among close friends and family. Which of course alerted… well, everyone starting at Varric over Leliana and Josephine all the way to the Empress herself, who promptly took matters into her very capable, very royal hands. And that made things about an infinity more complicated. The sun had not set on the next day when people started coming to pester either of them with all sorts of questions about who to invite, which premises to decorate and how, what colours to use for the general theme? What food should be served and which bard would play, or should it be a whole ensemble? What will the flower arrangements look like? Nothing ruffled Shenlira's calmness, she answered each question utterly unperturbed, no matter how ridiculous they got. Cullen on the other hand perceived the constant chattering of the self-appointed handlers as just… noise, at some point.

"We should have known better.", he remarked woefully about a week later, while he was writing recommendation letters for his captains at the grand desk in their quarters. Shenlira, who had just risen from a nap, walked over from the wide ornamented bed to join him. Rubbing her eyes sleepily, she let one hand rest at his nape. The tiny, benevolent gesture made him sigh contentedly. The sight of her in the velveteen dressing gown, still drowsy and grumbling, was so endearing that he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

"What is it this time? Flowers, fabrics, or maybe both? Or, let me guess… The latest idea for dessert: Little cakes made from… nightingale tears and sprinkled with sugar from a unicorn's horn.", she made a sweeping, dramatic motion.

"Just a tiny change of the décor you need to approve, or some such thing." Cullen smiled at her whimsy and buried his face between the folds of her robe, inhaling her scent. _My personal, favorite fragrance in the world._ Lilac and rosemary and that elusive something that reminded him of wild places, never to be tamed by man. The events of the Council had kept her on her toes, commanding all attention and focus, but now that those were over and not distracting her anymore, her condition became quite noticeable. Cullen had no clue how she'd managed to hide the morning sickness from him, for he was now roused each day by pitiful sounds and usually spent the early hours comforting her until the nausea passed around midday. After a long conversation with Keeley, he had a better knowledge what to expect the next weeks and months. The outlook made him both anxious and elated. He hoped that he was sufficiently equipped for such a monumental change in his life. Not that he would ever have traded it for something else. The sense of elation had not abated and he wondered if one of these days, he might simply float away because of it.

Shenlira, on the other hand, seemed to take it all in stride. Yet her mood started to swing from a deep-set tranquillity to emotional outbreaks he'd never thought her capable of. Just like the constant exhaustion that led to frequent naps during the day, this was a normal side effect of expecting. Yet most of the time, she emitted an aura of peace and seemed content with her conclusion to disband the Inquisition. Her resentment about Solas, that was a different thing… Weeks before the Council, Shenlira had written to her father and Deshanna, bidding them to travel to the forests near Halamshiral for a meeting between several Dalish clans. An innate sense of danger must have guided her summons – elves had been disappearing for months, from alienages and clans alike, following some unknown calling, and she had voiced her worry about it to Cullen often. Well, now they knew the reason for the disappearances, at least. It didn't make the issue less troubling.

As many other feelings, her grief concerning Wolf Brother stayed muted inside her, although she would sometimes burrow against his chest in her sleep and beckon him to her dreams, seeking comfort. They were quiet, snow-covered landscapes, solitary fields both beautiful and sad, only illuminated by cool blue starlight. Cullen tried to brighten them, infuse them with warmth. A patch of snowdrops beneath a slumbering tree or a white fox flitting between the trunks. He knew the times he succeeded when Shenlira went still in his arms, sighing in relief.

"It will fade in time.", he whispered softly to her then, knowing without doubt that she was listening. _Maker, let my words be true.,_ he prayed inwardly. _We have had enough heartbreak, enough hardships_.

* * *

The preparations for their upcoming wedding as well as matters created by the Inquisition disbandment kept them both busy, though. Clan Lavellan arrived three days before the scheduled event, their caravans moving smoothly and swiftly as sailing ships. The spectacle drew many curious onlookers, yet very few dared to approach the elves who made camp on the outskirts of Halamshiral, the bright aravel tents visible even from a distance. Cullen had been a bit troubled about the reaction of the clan to a marriage between their Alaslin and a human, but when Iveras and Deshanna greeted him heartily, those worries were soon dispersed. Shenlira's father broke into a wide smile when he learned he would become grandfather soon, and the couple was more or less coerced to spend the evening in celebration with the elves. It seemed that Shenlira didn't have the heart to tell her people the shocking things she had learned from Fen'Harel. That could wait until after the wedding. When Cullen returned with her late at night, she dozed off fully-clothed on the bed as soon as her face touched the pillows.

"Curly.", Varric announced himself quietly, standing in the doorframe. The dwarf held a piece of folded velvet in his hands and smirked at Cullen, who pulled the blankets over Shenlira.

"All the names you could choose from, and you still go with that one.", he murmured, walking over to join his friend.

"Ah, well. By now it is almost tradition. I have something for you. Here.", Varric unfolded the fabric and showed Cullen two exquisite rings. They were perfect, smooth silver of a purity he'd never seen before, crafted with a loving simplicity that needed no adornment. A slight weaving crest in the metal was the only embellishment the smith had added. It gave the impression of two bands braided together on each ring.

"Dwarven, of course. Silverite and white gold. I had them made… months ago, in case you ever pluck up your courage and ask her. There's this jeweller in Markham, she does this incredible thing – not important, anyway, it's my gift to you and Robin.", Varric let the rings drop into Cullen's palm, who was momentarily rendered speechless.

"Varric, I… I don't know what to say…", he fumbled, making the dwarf grin.

"I know, I'm a great friend. At least I did not turn out to be a damn immortal megalomaniac with some ridiculous notion of self-justice.", Varric noted sourly. "How is she?", he added in a more serious tone, glancing at the sleeping Shenlira.

"Mending… Dorian restored her hand as well as he could, but her spirit is still grieving. Such things take much longer.", he answered. Varric nodded thoughtfully.

"She will weather it, as always. And she has you. Don't worry about life becoming boring. I'm sure you'll be kept on your toes well enough soon.", this with a suggestive grin to which, oddly, Cullen agreed.

There had not been much time to alert his family that he'd be getting married, but somehow his sister Mia managed to arrive in time – she'd probably run three sets of horses to complete exhaustion, but when she greeted Cullen and Shenlira with fierce hugs, they were both glad that she'd made it after all.

* * *

The evening before the ceremony, all the inner circle, friends and family convened in the great sitting room of the guest wing for a few hours of merriment and leisure. They drank spiced wine and were brought samples from the dinner that would be served the next day, told stories and reminisced about the time spent with the Inquisition. Shenlira let her gaze wander around the room, watching the people she held dear come together to share her joy, celebrating the happy turn her life had taken.

A bittersweet sensation overcame her, a mix of hushed sadness and singing gratitude. _My friends… how glad I am to have met you all, to have touched lives with you_. Leliana and Cassandra, two beacons of faith who had very different ways but ultimately sought to reach the same goal. Josephine, who beamed all evening and couldn't refrain from raising some last-minute questions about seating arrangements and such for the wedding. The Iron Bull, who had given up the harsh moral confinements of the Qun for the Chargers, and because he'd believed in the Inquisition. He lounged with an arm lazily around Dorian. That sparkling, flirty mage who radiated arrogance and the tendency never to take any matter seriously – but that attitude could not hide the wide and passionate heart beneath. Cole kept to the silent corners and peeked in from time to time, but Shenlira sensed the aura of his compassion like little snowflakes brushing over her cheek, getting caught in her eyelashes. It felt soothing and made her relax, able to enjoy the cheerful atmosphere more. Varric kept her entertained with stories about being Viscount of Kirkwall and the hilarious problems sometimes caused by politics, while Blackwall complemented him with shameless village tales of bandits and forbidden affairs that usually ended in husbands being chased bare-bummed across one field or other.

At some point, her friends conjured a lute from who knew where, and Shenlira was wheedled to sing a few of their favourite songs while Leliana accompanied her on the instrument. The gathering lasted well into the night, until Cullen noticed the tired flutter of her eyelids and the frequent yawns she tried to stifle. He gently broke up the company then. As he tucked her into bed that night, she smiled in her sleep, with a warm contentment that gave him hope for the future.

* * *

The wedding itself took place in the palace gardens. It was still high summer at the end of Solace, the days lush and warm, the nights mild. Garlands of dainty white lilac hung from the intricate archways. The paths were flanked by clever flower arrangements or elegantly curved branches, decorated with bright rainbow ribbons. Tables draped in white cloth and laden with refreshments stood among the guests, where Dalish elves walked unperturbed between humans on that sun-bathed day.

Shenlira felt a peculiar nervousness as she watched the commotion from the balcony of her quarters, while maids prepared her wedding dress. Magically, the seamstresses had managed to sew it in less than a week. Exactly like years before, on the day she had taken Cullen to the clearing to destroy the lyrium box… A strange mix of hesitation and excitement, shortly before one took a great leap into the unknown. But as back then, she thought while the women laced the beautiful garment at her back, she would brace this last, great adventure. All reluctance disappeared anyway when she walked towards the rows of meticulously arranged chairs and saw Cullen standing at the end of the aisle, waiting for her. Her father sensed the quickening of her steps. He gently let her go, and she went to her beloved's side with a radiant smile. Cullen would never forget her beauty on that day, grey eyes luminous with delight in her heart-shaped face, the little flowers woven into her dark hair. And her deep affection, like a caress on his very skin as he spoke his vows.

"In my life, I have sworn oaths to protect the weak, dedicated myself to the righteous and just cause. Today, before the Maker and all who came to witness, I vow that same dedication to you, as long as we may live. You brought light into my life, my wild spirit, my Lira. I love you, more than words can say.", his gaze held hers, and at that moment nothing else mattered. There was only him. Perpetual, resolute. _Behind us is war, and nightmare, and loss. But you never wavered. Neither shall I._ Shenlira took a shuddering breath of courage. The future lay before her, a path as clear as day.

" _Vhenan_ , you know better what is in my heart than anyone else in the world. Still, if I am to make a promise, it should be this simple thing: I am going to love you, for everything you are, always. No force in the world can change this devotion that has only grown since the day you entrusted your proud heart to me. I vow to cherish it, until the day I take my last breath, and possibly even beyond that.", her voice trembled a little, but then again his own wasn't quite even either for the rest of the ceremony. And then, for the first time, he leaned in to kiss his wife and seal the promises they'd made to each other. Beneath his lips, she seemed unable to contain the spread of her wide smile as the guests broke into applause – some bolder ones even whooped and whistled.

People swarmed in to congratulate them and Shenlira found herself embraced by every last friend she had made during the marvellous adventure of the last years, by her father and Deshanna, by Scout Harding and the Empress herself and – oh, so many people she lost count. They whirled in a dizzying, colourful tapestry around her and it was all she could do to bask in their earnest goodwill. Drinks and food were handed out by impeccably dressed waiters and the first tunes of some merry wedding song drifted over the scenery, compelling people to dance. Everyone seemed intent on having a few words with the newlyweds. But by some miraculous way, Cullen managed to extricate her from the beleaguerment for the _Barefoot Maiden_ – that was tradition, after all, and it had to be obeyed. Between dancing and eating and talking to countless people, the celebration went on until well past midnight before the bridal couple found an undisturbed moment for themselves.

"I don't know about you, lovely wife, but I sincerely hope that we only get married this once.", Cullen whispered at her pointed ear, sounding amused. They had retreated to a quiet corner in the gardens, although the voices of Varric and Dorian bawling some gaudy ballad still managed to carry over to them. Shenlira looked up at her husband with a crooked smile.

"You called me wife.", she noted and a whimsical glint flashed in her eyes. "But I couldn't agree more, that's why I told them to cause a distraction…", here she trailed away and regarded him in a meaningful sort of way. Cullen felt his heart give an excited lurch when he understood what she was implying. _Crafty little woman_ … It had been a feat of remarkable restraint that he'd lasted the whole day without spontaneously combusting from the anticipation of being alone with his bride.

"You want me to kidnap you in the middle of our wedding feast?", Cullen asked, leaning over to let a handful of dark, fragrant wisps slide through his fingers. They had come loose from the meticulous, complicated hairstyle, disobedient as ever. Her breath hitched when his bristly cheek rubbed over the soft skin of her neck. "Don't tempt me, Lira."

"Did I marry a tame cat instead of a lion after all, Sajnalin?", she said, a giggle bubbling from her when he let out a low growl.

"Alright, that's it.", her husband stated and she could barely suppress a startled cry when she was simply lifted into his arms and carried off without further ado.

* * *

A picturesque sunrise dawned the next morning. All the world appeared softened, submerged in rosy and lavender light, like the brushstrokes of a refined painter. The wedding finery, stitched with painstaking attention, now lay strewn across the quarter floors. Carelessly discarded during the night of searing passion. No doubt the past hours had confirmed the spicy rumours Cullen had heard about weddings nights. He smiled as he remembered making love to his beautiful wife, the tiny white flowers still caught in her spread-out mane. Her soft, naked skin gleaming in the shards of moonlight like the surface of a pearl as she had shivered beneath his touch.

Shenlira was still asleep now, immersed deeply in a blissful exhaustion. Careful not to wake her, he laid his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, hovering at the edge of sleep. Even though Solas had betrayed their confidence and left in such an offhand manner, the mage had taught them both well how to use their unique connection to influence each other's dreams with almost complete awareness. Cullen sought the tiny door Shenlira usually left open for him now and was baffled when he failed to find it.

She seemed intensely focused on something deep within, a thing so personal that she'd subconsciously warded her mind off from his. Only once before had he been denied access into her dreams, at a time when she'd mourned her sister Orianna's death but had been too ashamed of those feelings, hiding them away. What she did now felt different, more as if her attention was completely taken up by the images she was seeing. Cullen nudged her, very gently. He felt her assent almost in an instant. She did not allow him into her dream completely, yet let him watch as an observer from above. The reason soon became apparent.

Shenlira was riding on Ash along a wide forest path between trees wearing colourful autumn leaves. Feelings of farewell saturated the dream as she flew over undergrowth, twig and stone, rejoicing in the freedom that the open woods had never failed to grant her. And yet, that solitary, care-free life had always been tinted with loneliness, every joy accompanied by a small, sad drawback that something crucial was missing. Cullen sensed as she bid goodbye to that old life. Laid rest to past resentments and unburdened herself of aches she had carried for too long. These farewells separated from her into ghostly images, translucent deer that leaped like streaks of silver starlight through the night. There was a stunning, melancholy elegance in each of them. They ran at her side for a few paces, before flitting away into the depth of the trees. The dream blurred and for a short moment, Shenlira joined him, before she pulled them both towards the waking world.

When he opened his eyes, she was already awake and regarded him pensively, her features soft in the light of dawn. Cullen let his hand settle on the still flat expanse of her stomach, where his little miracle was yet invisible to the eye.

"You do not have to give up that life, Lira. We could find a cottage somewhere near Redcliffe, or Wycome, anywhere you'd like. I could…", here she interrupted him, an impish smirk curving her mouth.

"You could be a farmer? No, _vhenan_. Not in a hundred lifetimes." She'd spoken those exact words to him once before. The fact that she still remembered that story he'd told her years ago made him return her smile archly.

"I don't want to continue that life. I never minded the frugal circumstances, but back then I simply did not have the means or motivation to live differently. Now I do. Our child should not lack for anything, and neither should you. Just between the two of us, Varric reviewed my personal accounts and told me I could probably buy half of Redcliffe. I don't know what that means, there was a bunch of numbers.", she went on dismissively, while Cullen paled at that revelation. He'd known that she had gathered quite the fortune during her travels – after all, she'd excavated about a dozen priceless treasures, although much of that money had gone into the Inquisition's coffers. But the actual magnitude shocked him – not for reasons of vanity or wounded pride, rather because he knew Shenlira better than anyone: She had no concept of money, at all. It was just numbers to her.

"The irony of it is that you don't even need the riches. As I learned yesterday, you have been made a Comtesse, complete with estate. I wouldn't mind living in Kirkwall again. I have always wondered what… you know, normal citizens do all day.", Cullen mused curiously. Shenlira let out a laugh at his strange line of thought.

"Normal? You make it sound as though it was some great mystery to be solved. You will never be just normal, Sajnalin. You would stick out like a… well, a lion among sheep.", she teased him, to which he grumbled in mock insult.

"What about you? Could you even live in a city, you little savage?", he retorted, making her puff indignantly.

"How rude of you, husband! For that insult I will not tell you the name I would grant our estate!" Cullen pulled her into his arms and couldn't supress a chuckle when she tried to wiggle free of his embrace.

"Oh, don't pout, my love… Tell me, please.", he whispered enticingly and felt a twinge of satisfaction as Shenlira shivered a little at his tone. She gave an exasperated sigh before she answered.

"Vigil's End." The maddening, gorgeous man she loved sought her mouth with his lips in a kiss that managed to set her heart to a wild gallop, even after all this time.

"As always, your choice for names is impeccable, Lira." As he said those words, Shenlira was imbued with an unbridled urgency, a barely contained anticipation. She couldn't wait to begin this new journey with him. Regardless of where it would lead, the only thing that mattered was that they would embark on it together. And at this moment, that knowledge felt like a thing unquestionable, as though her volatile life had fallen towards this point with absolute certainty. Through stormy skies, snow-covered mountains, windswept forests. Off the edge of a sword and along the tip of an arrow, slipping through demon claws and sliding dangerously close to flames. To come to rest, in the circle of his arms, inside the steady beat of his heart. A fate finally fulfilled.

* * *

 _Dalish translations:_

 _Here you can find the translations for every Dalish phrase/word used in this tale:_

 _Shenlira – Tiny Star_  
 _Alaslin – First Huntress_  
 _Sajnalin – He Who Guards_  
 _Da'Assan – Little Arrow_  
 _Las'Amelin – To Grant A Name_  
 _Ir abelas. – I am sorry._  
 _Ar lath ma. – I love you._  
 _Vhenan – My heart (endearment)_  
 _Ma'shal en hes Fen'Harel! – Do not take me, Dread Wolf!/Begone from me, Dread Wolf!_  
 _Mar'Alenna – Weave of Fate_  
 _Andaran Atish'an – Enter this place in peace. (Formal greeting)_  
 _Lithlas – Colorful Gift_  
 _Alaslin mel imlis vir'vhenas. – The First Huntress asks to return home._  
 _Mir'elgar sulahn'nehn mas vir'vhenas. – My spirit sings in joy to be home again._  
 _Da'len – Little One (endearment, by close friends or family)_  
 _Somniar'shiral – Dream Journey_  
 _Mariel – Weaver_  
 _Iveras – Smooth Stone (a unique word of the elves for stones smoothed in riverbeds)_  
 _Mal alas'eral, Da'Assan. – We hunt together, Little Arrow._  
 _Mir vhenan numines ar abelas. – My heart cries in sorrow._  
 _Vhenallin – Friend of the People (Someone who is friendly/trusted by the elves)_  
 _Ma serannas…el halani, mirthadra. – I am grateful for your help, honoured one._

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** To all who have journeyed with Shenlira and Cullen to the end: Thank you and I hope you had fun reading!_

 _I spent months writing this story, and then some more weeks revising it, smoothing things here and there. I started during my first playthrough of Dragon Age Inquisition and had still much to learn about lore and plot creation as it all developed. Somewhere along the way I played the game again, with an elf mage Inquisitor, and wondered if I should have written Resolution differently._

 _The Mage/Cullen romance is very rich. It has much ground for conflicts and then some for resolving them. But I just could not imagine Shenlira as a mage - her whole personality was built upon her being a solitary huntress, and making her a mage did not feel right. It would have opened other possibilities for the story, but also would have closed others. Several parts of the plot could not have gone down the way they did._

 _The custom of Las'Amelin was something I loved describing and weaving into the story. To give a thing a name seals it into existence, makes it more real. There is much power in granting names, and they are private, personal things. Using the Las'Amelin of another without permission would be considered incredibly rude. Like wearing someone else's underwear. Cullen allowed Solas to call him Sajnalin (because they had bonded in the act of protecting Shenlira), for which Solas permitted him to call him Wolf Brother (since he saw a deeper friendship between them after the nightmare) in return. Yet they would never used the other's Las'Amelin for Shenlira - their relationships toward her were different. There is much subtle significance tied to the custom of Las'Amelin._

 _I don't think I have ever written such a complete character like Shenlira, although I put her through horrible things, besides the dark secrets of her family. I built her friendship with Solas - a friendship that went beyond usual bounds, so far that he was the only person other than Cullen who was given a Las'Amelin. And I did it knowing that trust would have to be broken in the end. It wasn't easy, delivering that blow. I believe that Solas cared deeply about both Shenlira and Cullen. But ultimately, he is driven by a guilt thousands of years old, and an ambition that may be so strong it overrides every personal wish. He could not live with himself if he set it aside. And Shenlira cannot abide that he pursues this self-inflicted curse at all cost. She may understand the principle - but as she stated herself, the betrayal runs too deep for forgiveness._

 _This concludes Shenlira's and Cullen's tale as the dawn of their life together has come. As for Solas... Maybe we have not seen the end of his story yet._


End file.
